Strings Attached - a There and Back Again side story
by ElyssaCousland
Summary: Nathaniel Howe, the pariah of Ferelden. Leliana, a damaged bard. Two people who never should have met - but the story has changed, and somehow the two are drawn together despite everything. There and Back Again presented their relationship as a 'fait accompli' - but how did it start? AU where Nathaniel returns to Ferelden during the Blight and is captured by his father
1. Chapter 1

One: Nathaniel

The first time Nathaniel saw her, he thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life.

The fact that she was rescuing him from weeks of literal torture had nothing to do with it, he was sure. Not that he wasn't entirely, embarrassingly grateful for the rescue, of course, but he was certain if he'd first seen her on the street at the market in Markham, he'd have been just as awestruck. She had hair like flame, a few little braids with beads decorating their ends, and the sweetest smile he could imagine – though the first expression he could remember seeing on her was one of horror and, unfortunately, pity.

Not the most auspicious beginning, he couldn't help but think. He'd have given much to meet her in other circumstances.

How she had taken up so much of his thoughts when they clearly had other, rather pressing matters to attend to was ridiculous. After all, he'd just made up his mind to kill someone – someone who had never harmed him, who in fact had gone out of her way to help him, someone who didn't deserve what his father was going to do to her. Or, really, force him to do to her – because that had been the catch. He didn't just have to watch the woman who'd nursed him for a month be raped or tortured – he had to do it. To be the one to rape her – or to return himself to the torture chamber, and let his brother have her. She'd begged him to kill her – and he'd finally, reluctantly, said yes.

And now he was being rescued by an angel, and instead of standing up and taking a weapon, instead of boldly leading the charge to confront his father, he was limping along – probably only upright thanks to the mage they'd brought with them – unarmed, barely able to keep up. And to his utter mortification, she'd had to help him, both down the stairs into the dungeon and through the labyrinthine hallways underneath the estate.

Seeing his father, hearing the bastard taunt Aedan – the only one who'd escaped from the slaughter that had been perpetrated on his castle and his family – had been too much. He'd found the energy from somewhere – sheer rage, he thought – to face his father, and to ensure that he could never harm anyone again.

And the entire time, he could feel her eyes on him, as palpable as a touch. But this wasn't market day back in Markham, and he had no right to feel that way about her. His shame was overwhelming, and he turned his face away to hide it from her. He was the son of a monster, too weak to stop his father, too weak to endure the torture any longer, too weak to end it himself so he couldn't be used any more. He couldn't protect Thomas, or Kallian, or any of the other countless innocents his father had harmed. He didn't deserve to escape from the dungeon alive, never mind to pine over a pretty girl he could offer nothing – not even his own integrity.

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A/N: This story will be comprised of 36 short chapters, alternating between Nathaniel and Leliana's POV. A new chapter should be posted daily!


	2. Chapter 2

Two: Leliana

Leliana had been concerned about the brooding, dark-haired noble. At first, she'd worried Aedan, enraged, would put the man out of his misery, and then she'd worried that the smelly, injured, traumatised, _damaged_ man they'd rescued would save Aedan the trouble and get himself killed by his father's guards. He could barely walk – several badly healing broken bones had been set and mended by Anders, not to mention the dehydration, malnourishment, scrapes, bruises, and contusions his ruined clothes barely covered, but no healing could substitute for the time and energy needed for a body to really mend – and yet he'd bullheadedly insisted on following them, on fighting, and on ending his father himself, rather than leaving it to another.

He had a strength to him, an inner drive that surprised her somehow, even after months of travelling with some of the strongest people she'd ever met. He was also broken, she could see that – and there was more here than just victimhood, or shame at being related to the monster. Something else. His eyes were hollow and sunken, something Anders' healing hadn't affected, and he refused to make eye contact with any of them except Kallian – the poor, terrified elf they'd found in his room. Leliana had offered support, feeling drawn to the tragic figure despite his parentage and his current unfortunate odour.

She had some experience with recovering from trauma, she thought. She might be able to help him.

Having him help fight the palace guard, then drag their unconscious, badly wounded leader across the city under cover of stealth was not what Leliana'd had in mind. Despite that, he was there, holding Aedan's arm over his shoulder, cradling his head, hiding in the shadows as effortlessly as she did when he went ahead to scout. He moved with undeniable grace despite his injuries, helping her manage the mage's blundering, borrowing her bow and taking an extremely difficult shot at a guard who'd been about to raise the alarm. Weeks of captivity had taken their toll on his body, but the muscles were still there, and it was clear he was well-used to drawing a bow.

He held the door for her and Kallian when they arrived back at Eamon's, silently reassuring the elf girl with a gentle smile, careful not to touch her even when she helped him, careful to avoid stepping into Leliana's personal space. He was always so careful – Leliana couldn't help but wonder if he had always been so deliberate and thoughtful, or if it was a response to his ordeal.

She'd offered to help him get settled at Eamon's once Aedan had been taken care of – he needed someone to show him around and get him what he required, she reasoned – and he'd followed her to the room she shared with Wynne, gratefully accepting a large healing potion, borrowing the bathtub and the remarkable little hot water 'rune' that she had retrieved from Sierra's room down the hall, agreeing with a wry smile when she suggested he burn his current clothes if she brought him something else to wear. He thanked her over and over, to her embarrassment, and she finally left him to get ready while she made do with changing quickly in the barracks.

His story, once he'd gotten the chance to tell everyone, was worse than she'd guessed – worse than her own frightening history of imprisonment and torture, if she was honest – and explained the haunted look on his face. But he didn't shy away from it, didn't hide the worse details, didn't try to paint himself in a more heroic light than he deserved. If anything, he downplayed the remarkable perseverance he'd shown in resisting for as long as he had in the face of what had been horrific injuries.

The others might not have seen what he didn't say – how he suffered, how he was still suffering, how his physical injuries were the least of his current ailments….

But she did.


	3. Chapter 3

Three: Nathaniel

He had dreaded telling his story, dreaded the inevitable revulsion he so richly deserved, especially when he finally opened his eyes and met _her_ gaze. But what he was greeted with was not what he expected; he faced only sympathy and understanding, despite everything. Mixed with some pity, there was no way to hide that, but the overwhelming disgust he'd braced for never happened.

Her reaction was the most surprising. She _knew_. She looked at him, had listened to him, seen right through him, and she knew.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know how that knowledge had come to her, but there was no mistaking it, amongst those who'd been through similar things. In fact, as he'd come to realise, everyone he'd met since being rescued had significant tragedy in their past – Aedan's loss, of course, but also the dwarf's oppression growing up Casteless, the would-be King's obvious childhood neglect, the mages' long battle with their Chantry overseers; even the unknown woman who'd known his name had a traumatic past, he was sure – but it was different, for those who'd been through torture. The blond elf understood, he made no attempts to hide his familiarity with it, but Nathaniel hadn't expected to see that look of pure empathy from the beautiful bard.

It unnerved him, actually; he didn't quite know what to do with knowing that she _knew_. He certainly didn't want her pity – though that didn't seem to be something she was offering, anyway – but it also felt like he couldn't wall it off, his grief and guilt and suffering, couldn't lock it away when she knew. Her knowledge was a breach in his defenses, and he scrambled from the room after he told his story to get away from her too-knowing gaze.


	4. Chapter 4

Four: Leliana

She found him in Eamon's barracks, destroying a sparring dummy with a sword. It was clear it wasn't his preferred weapon – his musculature was all wrong for a swordsman, his attacks lacked some of the grace he so effortlessly displayed in other tasks – but he seemed to find some solace in the physical strain of the activity, working up a sweat as he hacked pieces off of his target through sheer determination instead of skill.

Leliana allowed herself a small, wry smile she'd never have allowed anyone else to see. She'd been where Nathaniel was now, newly escaped from what she'd been sure was a death sentence, betrayed and hurt and damaged, unable to see beyond her own pain – the emotional pain didn't heal, no matter how many elfroot drafts she'd swallowed. She had thrown herself at the first available opportunity – first working with some of the Chantry's Seekers, people Mother Dorothea had introduced her to, and then resuming her spycraft, only with Dorothea, not Marjolaine, as spymaster – but had found that no matter how ceaselessly she worked, no matter how she pushed herself past the point of exhaustion, no matter whose bed she threw herself into, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop the images that played out on her eyelids every time she closed her eyes, couldn't stop the frisson of fear down her spine that she'd be caught again, betrayed again, hurt again... She'd learned the hard way that physical exertion and meaningless sex could not substitute for emotional health.

She'd also learned that someone couldn't be led to that conclusion; it was something they had to learn for themselves. Dorothea had tried to counsel her, to hold her, to heal her – to stop her self-destructive search for the next fight with which to distract herself – but it wasn't something that even the most devout, the most caring person could do for someone. It had to come from within.

It had come for Leliana, when, late one night after a mission that had been too easy, had gone too well and hadn't allowed her to purge the mass of feelings crushing her chest with casual violence – and a brief dalliance with another lay sister had failed to distract her adequately from the dark memories she'd suppressed – she'd found herself wandering through the empty Chantry disconsolately. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, just trying to burn the restless energy that wouldn't let her sleep, when she came across light spilling out from a small, rarely-used chapel. She'd crept to the door, feet silent as a breath, and peered into the room uncertainly, wondering what was wrong that someone was both up so late and occupying a room she'd never seen in use before.

What she'd seen initially hadn't seemed like much. Mother Dorothea, her saviour, her mentor, naked on her knees, tears streaming down her face as she gazed up at a statue of the Beloved Andraste, lips moving in silent prayer; Leliana had stayed still and watched as she had prayed, watched her face as she laid her soul bare to the Maker and his Bride, the tears never stopping. Dorothea had alternated verses of the Chant with silent reflection, clearly begging forgiveness from the higher power she'd sworn to serve.

She'd stayed there for an hour or more, her hidden watcher unnoticed; Leliana had stayed rapt, watching, never tiring – until finally with an audible sigh, the older woman had glanced down, and Leliana's attention had been drawn to the bowl resting in front of her. The Mother had reached into the water and pulled out a cloth, wringing it out thoroughly before she had begun washing herself, genuflecting and pausing for moments of prayer between each part, a ritual Leliana was by-now familiar with. Most of the priestesses performed this part of the ritual in their own quarters, alone, purifying themselves before performing either some sort of service, or a penance inflicted upon them by their superiors for mistakes or confessed sins, but whether the cleansing ritual was public or private didn't really matter – what mattered was the mental clarity needed for the service to be truly meaningful, the repentance sincere.

Leliana had watched, spellbound, until the nature of the service the Mother was going to perform was revealed. Still occasionally streaming tears, the older woman had lifted a new, clean cloth from the bowl of water and begun bathing Andraste's statue, gently washing first the pedestal, and then the toes. She had wiped each inch with deliberation and careful attention to detail, before using a towel to dry it again, leaving it looking unchanged to the naked eye – but purified in the eyes of the Maker. It was a penance often inflicted on the newest initiates, the most troubled applicants, the ones who had difficulty seeing and holding onto their faith through everything in their past that had brought them there; it was intended to be mindless, to encourage self-reflection – but also to be mind-numbing and unpleasant, so as to not-so-gently encourage the disruptive penitent to conform.

It was a penance no one would ever assign a Revered Mother, something everyone would assume was far beneath her. Some in the Chantry would assert that it diminished the dignity of a Chantry official to perform such a menial service, though others would do such things in an ostentatious attempt to demonstrate their 'humility' to the Maker; this was neither. It had been clear the Mother had not intended to have an audience, was not doing it at the behest of a superior or to flaunt her devotion, but instead as an act of selfless service, a private penitence, a balm to her own faith. And it had touched something in Leliana, in a way no perfectly sung Chant or golden shimmering Cathedral ever had – this was personal, and genuine, an honest expression of belief and dedication, not a display for the benefit of others.

Drawn forward inexorably, Leliana had stepped into the small chapel. The only response from her mentor had been a brief pause before she had returned to lovingly washing the statue's feet. Afraid to speak and break the spell that had weaved itself around the little sanctuary, clear-headed for the first time in months, mind entirely devoid of the noisy tumble of emotions she hadn't been able to escape as easily as she had escaped the dungeon, she had stayed silent, quietly divesting herself of her robes before kneeling beside the older priestess reverently. Dorothea had nodded at her without a word, before returning to her work.

Reaching down, Leliana had picked up a spare cloth and begun the ritual cleansing, something she'd done countless times since coming to the Chantry but had never really connected with. She'd shivered as she recited the prayers in her mind, not out loud, not using her well-trained voice to try and impress, but instead truly feeling the meaning and the purpose those words gave her. When she was done, when she felt pure for the first time she could remember since her childhood, she had wrung out another cloth, shuffled around the side of the statue Dorothea was painstakingly cleaning, and begun washing the statue's marble knees. The two women had worked together all night, in the flickering candlelight, never speaking, occasionally weeping silently but never stopping, moving around each other effortlessly until they were both satisfied it was done.

Leliana sighed as she considered the memory fondly. That had been the day that had started her on her current path. She'd stumbled, exhausted, into her bed, but when she'd awoken she'd felt content – not impatient for the next assignment, not desperate for something or someone to fill the void within her, but quietly satisfied, confident, certain of her direction and her faith. She'd gone to Dorothea that day and requested to be transferred – somewhere quiet, remote, where she could be of service to the Maker's children, but also contemplate and pray in peace. It had taken very little time before she'd found herself in Lothering – and the rest was history. The Maker had seen to it that she'd been where she was needed, that she was given the time to develop the mental fortitude to walk this path – and then placed on a collision course with someone who would need her and her specific background.

She watched Nathaniel silently for a little longer as he vented his emotions on the defenceless dummy; he didn't seem the type to take solace in the Maker or the Chantry – and indeed Leliana had seen some things over the course of the Blight that had opened her eyes to just how far the Chantry had strayed from Andraste's teachings – but the initial step was going to be the same for Nathaniel's recovery as it had been for her own: clarity. Quiet. Focus. The bard gazed at the musculature visible in the shoulders of the raven-haired noble, and rubbed the callouses on her own fingers that matched those she could see on Nathaniel's.

The man was obviously an archer – a skilled one, from what she'd seen.

Leliana knew archers. She'd trained with them, lived with them, pretended to be one of them. Become one of them. She knew how they thought – and she knew how they achieved clarity.

She reflected once again on the night she'd found the Maker in a small chapel. In retrospect, when she'd had time to consider it, the fact that it had been a set-up was obvious. There'd been four cloths available, not the two Dorothea would have needed for herself. The room had been warm, and too well-lit – and the mission had been a waste of Leliana's talents, so her frustrated night-time prowling was quite predictable. Dorothea was a not-inexperienced bard in her own right, and she'd known how to draw Leliana in, had guessed what she'd needed to see. She had obviously been aware of Leliana watching long before she'd gotten the courage to enter the room. Dorothea – who'd always told Leliana that she had to heal herself, not that Leliana had listened – had skillfully manipulated Leliana through the initial steps with Leliana none-the-wiser – and the redhead couldn't have been more grateful if it had been Andraste herself doing the guiding. _Just because you have to heal yourself doesn't mean others can't help you along when you need it._

She smiled. She withdrew silently, turning to the range and choosing a practice bow. She rattled the arrows just a little too enthusiastically, cleared her throat a little too loudly, drew back her aim and sent an arrow purposefully flying off behind the target, cursing under her breath a little too vehemently. She took a breath and drew the bow again, suppressing her smirk when she heard the footsteps behind her. She released the arrow a little too soon, and it rebounded off the stand of the target to land on the ground.

She nodded silently as the damaged man stepped up beside her, his own bow in hand. He nocked an arrow and drew, and she synchronized her breathing to his, just loudly enough that he could hear it. They both released, and then drew again, not having to think about the rhythm of it, falling effortlessly into the pattern: inhale; draw; exhale; release; nock. Again and again they fired, neither bothering to even check their results on the target, and he started synchronizing his breath to hers even when she slowed the pace.

She had learned the lesson well: sometimes people needed help to find their way back. She smiled at him softly and turned back to her target, taking aim again.


	5. Chapter 5

Five: Nathaniel

Nathaniel woke slowly, his mind foggy, his head aching and his stomach roiling. Really, he thought it should be much worse – he'd started drinking early, and while he didn't remember how much he'd had to drink, his actions the previous evening indicated that he should have stopped much sooner than he had. Given that he'd apparently drunk until enraged, then pathetic and sloppy, and then blacked out, he was surprised he wasn't feeling more ill – he would have expected to spend the day with his head in a chamber pot.

He supposed he should have felt lucky – vomiting until his stomach bled didn't really appeal – but given what he did remember about the night before, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't prefer to spend the day sicking up all over himself than facing the people he knew waited for him down the hall.

'How could I?' he berated himself. That soldier who'd glanced at Kallian hadn't even said anything, never mind done anything inappropriate; Nate had been lucky the man's friends had realised who Nate was and dragged them apart before Nate had done something unforgiveable – or had his ass handed to him if his friends had chosen a different way to intervene. And then Sierra…he didn't even know her, but the poor woman – Aedan's sister, and wasn't that just the most insane thing he'd heard? Which was saying something given he'd just spent weeks being tortured by his own father – certainly hadn't deserved to put up with him as a maudlin drunk. He remembered pouring his heart out to her – awkwardly, given his intoxication – but not much after that. He had a vague memory of everything sliding sideways, the hallway lurching as he was carried, and then…nothing.

He had slept better than he could have imagined – he had expected nightmares, at the least. _I guess all that practice at the archery butts paid off_ , he mused as he slowly got dressed. It had been a strange experience, yet somehow so calming, standing next to someone and firing arrow after arrow, not even looking to see where he'd hit, trusting his aim and losing himself in the rhythm. It reminded him of cold mornings as a child when he'd escape outside to practice rather than listen to his parents scream at each other in the family quarters – he'd learned to let it all go, to clear his mind and let the time slip around him until a servant would come looking for him for a meal or a lesson. It had all come back to him in a rush, and he had given in to the soothing familiarity gratefully. It had clearly helped more than he had any right to expect, too, because he felt reasonably well-rested and surprisingly light of heart.

He thought about what Aedan's sister had said; he considered everything from Kallian's perspective, in the cool light flooding the barracks, and while he didn't think he'd ever completely forgive himself for giving in to his father, he could also admit that he hadn't been entirely wrong to make the decision he had. He was just grateful not to have had to go through with it, and he realised he'd neglected to thank those who'd rescued him. He resolved to fix that oversight, and with a small smile, left the barracks to do just that.

He was pulled into a meeting almost immediately upon emerging, and had been relieved when he'd thought he was being dismissed – only to feel like someone had punched him in the gut when Aedan called him an Arl. He gaped at the man – and then at Eamon who backed him up, and Anora who didn't object – his mind reeling.

An Arl? That wasn't something that was ever supposed to happen. His last day in Amaranthine before being exiled to the Free Marches crossed his mind; he'd been so angry with his father, so hurt, torn between wishing to please him and wanting to punch him. And Rendon…he hadn't even cared enough to respond in kind. He'd been cold, harsh, pragmatic. "You're a disappointment to me, boy. I was prepared to do whatever it took for you to advance – but you're too soft, too weak. You'll never be the man you need to be to succeed me, I see that now. Your place is in Markham now – squiring will probably agree with you admirably. Get out of my sight, and don't come back." And Nathaniel had taken those words to heart – and held them close desperately ever since. If having power meant you had to be like his father, he was more than content to stay a squire forever.

Only now, Aedan was smiling at him, and even Eamon gave him a grudging nod of respect. Heart pounding, he vowed to himself that he'd kill himself before he let himself become like his father.

It was _she_ who had put it in perspective for him, however; after the meeting, she'd settled on a divan nearby as he'd pondered the strange twists of fate that had brought him there, greeting him politely by title and giving a throaty laugh when he'd objected vociferously.

"Your father was a monster – now it will be up to you to decide what legacy to leave. You may have been born to privilege, but it is entirely up to you what you will do with it." And then she'd entertained him with stories of the nobles she'd known in Orlais, their ridiculous intrigues and foibles – but each story demonstrated a clear point. There was always a place where someone had to choose between what was easy, and what was right – and there were always consequences. The question was, which consequences could you face when you looked yourself in the mirror every morning, and which would leave a piece of your soul behind until you were nothing but a shadow of who you'd once had the potential to be?

Nathaniel hadn't noticed, until she'd pointed it out, how few mirrors his father had tolerated. There hadn't been one anywhere at the estate, that he'd seen – and there hadn't been many at home after his mother had died, either.

He decided not to think about exactly what that meant.

And so, to his surprise, he was going to be an Arl, if the Landsmeet approved. He'd done nothing to earn it – though given what an unmitigated disaster his father had been, he probably couldn't make anything worse – but he resolved to do whatever it took to make things right, to clear his family name, and to prove that he was nothing like his father.

And she had smiled at him – pleased, and maybe a bit proud? – and had promised to help.


	6. Chapter 6

Six: Leliana

Her assignment as a messenger shouldn't have been a surprise, but as she galloped through the rain between one army encampment and another, she cursed the luck that had made her one of the few fast riders the army had access to. The mages had been training – there were now a handful with the ability to shape-change into a bird – but that didn't negate the need for horseback messengers, especially when it came to communications with the Chantry, who none of the Dalish mages would approach after a first, awkward confrontation that barely avoided bloodshed.

All of that meant that she was cold, wet, and exhausted; she'd been riding from dawn until dusk day after day, with no semi-permanent base – so unlike the rest of her comrades, she was stuck sleeping wherever she was forced to stop, usually in a damp tent and bedroll that smelled like horse. It was, in a word, miserable. She hadn't seen Sierra or Aedan in days, hadn't had any down time or companionship, and she was starting to wonder if she hadn't misread the signs from the Maker after all – perhaps he just meant for her to ride herself to an early death, rather than help save the world?

She'd made it to a camp just as the sun was setting, but before she'd had the chance to set up her soggy tent, she'd been approached by the communications officer, or Commie, as they were known – a glorified bureaucrat, to be sure, but still technically Leliana's superior, so she'd had no choice but to listen. Not that she'd paid overly much attention to most of the details; the long and the short of it was that she was needed for one more run – an urgent message for the king that couldn't wait.

With a long-suffering sigh – and several colourful Orlesian curses – Leliana took the proffered envelope and climbed wearily back into her saddle. It was going to be a bit of a harrowing ride, with darkness already falling and the rain still sheeting down, but the Commie had even tried to suck up to the bard, praising her dedication and ability to ride at night, so it was clearly important.

It took much longer than normal to reach the main encampment, as Leliana had had to pick her way through brush in the dark, and even dismount and lead her horse at one point, but she'd finally arrived, soaked and miserable, only to remember she was on the wrong side – the command tent was on the northwest edge of camp, and she'd come from the southeast. The usual chaos reigned over the camp itself, and especially in her tired state, it had taken longer than necessary to make her way across.

By the time she'd handed off the envelope to someone standing outside Cailan's tent, she was all-but-asleep on her feet, and she didn't even have the stamina to blink when the servant pointed her to a large nearby tent and told her to get some rest. She'd stumbled inside, found a bedroll ready and waiting for her, and had barely managed to peel herself out of her wet cloak and armour before falling asleep face down in only a chemise.

The first thing she noticed when she woke was how warm she was; it had been weeks since she'd felt completely dry, and longer since she'd been warm, and she burrowed gratefully into the blankets, desperate to enjoy it for just a little bit longer before she got up and got her first assignment. Her hips were aching, however, from her long hours in the saddle, and it quickly became apparent that she wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep.

As she laid there, eyes still tightly shut, it occurred to her that she hadn't even climbed into the bedroll when she'd finally collapsed there – how had she come to be covered with warm blankets? Had someone come into the tent and covered her? As soon as the thought occurred, she realised she could hear something much closer than the general hum of activity from outside – breathing. She wasn't alone in the tent.

Her eyes flew open, her heart pounding in her chest. Her logical mind reminded her that in the middle of an army camp, it was unlikely she was about to be attacked, but what felt like a lifetime of playing The Grand Game had taught her that you could never be too careful. She leapt up in the same moment that she opened her eyes, throwing off the blankets and landing in a defensive crouch, looking around wildly.

She was surprised by how bright it was inside the tent; there was daylight streaming in, and it was clear she'd overslept. She was also surprised by the tent itself – in the light of day, she could tell it wasn't just any tent, something she hadn't noticed in her exhaustion the night before. The fabric of the tent was waterproofed better than any she'd seen, the bedroll and blankets thicker than hers; there was a camp stool, a desk, and a washstand nearby, and the floor was covered in actual rugs. Any thoughts about that fled at the next sight that greeted her, however: Nathaniel Howe, wearing only an unlaced tunic and cotton trousers, sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the tent, his chin on his chest, asleep.

Taking another quick look around and seeing nothing threatening, Leliana settled onto her knees on the bedroll. She was in Nate's tent, that much was obvious; she could see the Amaranthine Bear heraldry on the armour in the corner, as well as embroidered on the blankets, and she wondered if she'd misunderstood the servant who'd directed here the night before. Perhaps she'd been asked to meet with Nate before going off to bed? If she'd been any less tired, she'd probably have noticed something was amiss, but as it was, it was pretty clear she'd come in, stripped down, and gone to sleep in the bedroll of a nobleman.

She was wearing only the chemise she'd collapsed in, and she was briefly grateful that Nathaniel was asleep – only to realise that the person who'd covered her in blankets in the night had more than likely been him, when he'd discovered her in his bed. She blushed when she thought of him seeing her like that, vulnerable and nearly naked, and she crawled carefully over to where she'd dropped her pack, rifling through it until she found some mostly dry clothes to put on. She dressed as quietly as she could manage, fighting her blush the entire time, planning in her head to grab her things and leave the tent before the Arl awoke – and then she could spend the rest of the Blight avoiding him, and they'd never have to discuss her awkward mistake.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Please let me know what you think!

As always, I don't own Dragon Age. A million thanks to Kira Tamarion and Melysande, my fabulous betas, and to Turtle Burst who encouraged me to write this and helped me brainstorm - and found me a name. I hate naming stories!

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Seven: Nathaniel

Nathaniel watched the bard surreptitiously through half-closed eyes, forcing himself to focus on her face, and not the long expanse of pale skin on perfectly formed legs that he'd been unable to avoid noticing in the night. It was clear from her frenzied movements and her quick, shallow breaths that she was anxious, and he couldn't blame her – when he'd asked to have Leliana directed to his tent once she'd arrived, he hadn't expected to find her undressed and dead to the world in his own bedroll. He'd tracked down the scout who'd spoken to her, and come to realise that she'd probably believed the tent to be meant for her – and had clearly fallen asleep before even finishing getting ready for bed.

She'd been shivering, and her face had been pale and gaunt; he'd chosen to wrap her in his blankets rather than wake her. He'd known the messengers were being run ragged, which was why he'd asked to take over organising them; he'd planned to allow her to sleep in his tent for the night anyway, though he'd rather expected she'd have her own bedroll. But he'd been delayed in his meeting with the king, and by the time he'd found her, she was fast asleep and his bedroll had been occupied. Conscious of how waking half-naked in the tent with a virtual stranger would seem to her, he'd decided to stay as non-threatening as he could – so he'd stayed dressed, planning to sit, awake, as far away as he could and keep an eye on her through the night. But he hadn't slept well since…well, his father, if he was truthful, and he'd been spending long days training with his men and meeting with Cailan and the other leaders, and his fatigue had caught up with him.

But now she was awake and dressed – and he owed her an apology. _Several apologies._

"Leliana," he almost whispered; it still seemed loud, in the quiet of the tent, and she jumped like someone had goosed her. He held up his hands with a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Her face was red right to the tips of her ears, and she hesitated for a moment before meeting his eyes. "My Lord." She nodded, and he winced, still not entirely comfortable with the title – especially from someone who'd seen him murder his own father to obtain it. "I apologise. It's obvious this morning, but I didn't realise—"

He cut her off with a gesture. "No, no. It was a reasonable assumption to make. I should have made better preparations." She raised a bemused eyebrow, and he shrugged. "I've taken over managing the scouts and messengers. There wasn't anyone really in charge, and you were all being pushed to the point of exhaustion. I'd planned to give you the opportunity to catch up on rest this morning, but I was delayed getting here and didn't get the chance to explain before you fell asleep."

He blushed, an image popping unbidden into his mind's eye – the beautiful bard asleep in his bed, her hair fanned out around her like fire, her mouth soft and slightly open, her long legs on display and the curve of her ass just visible where the chemise had ridden up. He shook his head to clear it, but his expression must have shown more than he intended, because she laughed, her melodious voice appealing even despite her evident embarrassment.

He cleared his throat. "So, the new rider schedule has you making scheduled deliveries between camps, and you'll return here to sleep every night. Each messenger will be assigned a home base and a pre-determined route, so you can leave your things, knowing you'll be coming back to them at the end of the day." He blushed again, making a split-second decision. "This tent will be yours."

She objected, as he predicted she would; she was intelligent enough to have guessed that the tent was his, he knew, but he really meant it. "Consider it…an apology." They both blushed, but he elaborated, "I know you've been run off your feet, with no oversight on the Commies. There was no reason that message had to be delivered last night, for example. And this damp bedroll," he gestured to where she'd dropped hers near the tent flap, "is practically a guarantee of some sort of illness. I can get another tent, but I can't replace…" he trailed off, suddenly lost in the azure of her eyes, before forcibly tearing his gaze away and coughing awkwardly, "a messenger who becomes ill."

They both lapsed into silence for a moment, but somehow instead of uncomfortable, it felt strangely peaceful. He glanced back at her and she smiled shyly at him. "Thank you, my Lord."

He winced again. "Nathaniel. Please?"

She nodded, and on an impulse, shuffled over on her knees to lean down and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Nathaniel."


	8. Chapter 8

Eight: Leliana

Leliana did end up taking his tent, though when he commandeered a replacement for himself – a much smaller, less ornate tent that he somehow seemed more comfortable in despite being cramped – he set it up beside hers, close enough that they could have carried on a conversation from separate tents without shouting. She got back to work after a half day of rest, to find things had dramatically changed overnight. She now had a route that involved circling from the Command tent, to the Chantry's camp, then to two other camps, before circling back to the Chantry and the Command tent. Assuming nothing untoward was happening, she would be back at her home base before dinner each night.

The added benefit was that, in between brief stints where they were off training with various parts of the army, most of her companions were in the main camp at times, and she got to see some of them nearly every night. She ate dinner with everyone in the army's mess tent, and then spent the evenings chatting with Sierra or Aedan, teasing Alistair, trading stories with Zevran, singing for her friends, and just generally relaxing. It reminded her of the time she'd spent before the Landsmeet travelling with the Grey Wardens, which were – despite the stress of the Blight and the threat of civil war which hung over them – some of the best months of her life. There were some obvious differences: they were surrounded by a large encampment filled with nobles, templars, and soldiers, and they didn't have to spend the day on foot, scavenging for food and fighting bandits, struggling to stay alive. They didn't have to spend nights on watch either, though she knew the Grey Wardens still took turns checking for Darkspawn.

They were also joined periodically by various people who hadn't been with them before the Landsmeet, but were welcome none-the-less: there was Bann Alfstanna, a lovely woman who had a secret love for shoes that Leliana could relate to, and the king himself joined them every second or third evening, keen to be away from his stuffy advisors and spend some time with people who didn't try to vie for his favour with each breath. Ser Cauthrien came by, stopping to chat amicably with Aedan or touch base with Loghain, and Keeper Lanaya dropped in from time to time as well. Queen Sereda spent the odd evening with them, sitting across the fire from Gorim as they studiously ignored each other.

But one new addition was there nearly every night, and she caught him watching her, his gaze heavy and palpable even when she wasn't paying attention. He'd look away, embarrassed, every time he realised she'd caught him, but within minutes he'd be watching her again. He watched her as he chatted with Aedan or Cailan, as he smirked at Sierra and Alistair – whose public displays of affection were still adorable – and as he fletched arrows by the fire. At first, it worried her; was he upset with her? Had she done something wrong? But the longer he watched, the more she realised he wasn't judging her; his gaze was warm, and it made her feel warm right down to her toes every time she noticed it. Not that she assumed it meant anything; she was well aware that he was a nobleman in a precarious position, in a country that hated Orlesians more than they loved their Mabari, and that was saying something. And she was Orlesian, by their standards, no matter how many people she told that she'd been born in Ferelden. She wasn't deluded enough to assume that he was watching her out of anything other than general interest, or perhaps gratitude for her part in his rescue – though the butterflies in her stomach paid no attention to that bit of logic.

Over the next several weeks, they worked together – Nate taking over running the scouts and messengers meant they spoke at least every couple of days – and Leliana found that she slowly began to gravitate to him after her deliveries were done for the day as well. She found herself a fletching tool and supplies and started helping him when he worked on arrows, cautiously joining in on his conversations at times. He was always so calm, so measured, never losing his temper or showing his worry, but neither laughing outright nor seeming lively and enthusiastic. He wasn't taciturn like Loghain, either – he was just composed, controlled, careful. Unflappable. He never asked for help and avoided even the appearance of pity; he was single-minded and intent on any task he undertook, totally serious and focused at all times.

In her fantasies – that she'd never admit to having, but couldn't seem to avoid, especially when she was alone in the tent and bedroll that had been his, able to hear his soft snoring from his adjacent tent – she dreamed about what it would take to break that control, to see him passionate, expressive…even tender. She wondered if, after his ordeal, he was even willing or capable of that. While she'd immediately proved to herself that she was capable of sex despite what had been done to her, Leliana had needed a year to recover enough to contemplate real intimacy after her escape from torture, and it had taken meeting Sierra and Aedan for her to come out of her shell and make real friends. It wasn't reasonable to assume he was ready for anything more personal than duty, at this point – if he'd even consider her for something personal, anyway.

And yet, every time she felt his eyes on her, she couldn't help but shiver under the weight of his gaze.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine: Nathaniel

Nathaniel was no blushing virgin; as an unmarried young noble squiring in the Free Marches, he'd had a variety of experiences with women. The first time, of course, he'd thought he was in love; the miller near the estate where he'd lived briefly in Markham had a beautiful, blonde, curvy daughter, and she'd held a teenaged Nathaniel spellbound from the first time he'd laid eyes on her. He'd given her presents, courted her favour, and one day found himself fumbling around in the dim light of an unused storage shed; she'd been gone as soon as he'd finished, and had never spoken to him again. He'd been heartbroken – for a week, until the girl who ran the fruit stand at the market caught his attention.

He'd not made the mistake of confusing lust for love again, but he'd had plenty of opportunities to satiate that lust, earning himself a reputation as a lady's man – but not a knave, either. He was careful never to lead anyone on, ensuring there were no hurt feelings – and no unexpected 'consequences' a few months down the road, either. He just enjoyed himself, without strings attached, and made sure his partners did the same.

But after a while, the novelty wore off. With his future so uncertain – squiring wasn't something he could do forever, even if he'd wanted, but he'd had no inkling that his father would ever recall him, either – he couldn't pursue anything more, and he'd had ten years in the Free Marches to have casual, meaningless sex. He really could no longer be bothered; he hadn't been with anyone for some time before returning to Ferelden, and since the Landsmeet, he'd been simply too busy.

He was rusty. He knew he was. But though he may have been out of practice, he remembered his experiences well enough to know that something about this was…different.

Oh, he desired her, there was no mistaking that; for the first time in a long time, his body stirred, his heart sped up, and his stomach dropped in that horrible pleasant way it always had when he'd pursued someone he found attractive. He had spent nights hard and aching for her, his mind flashing back to that brief glance he'd seen of her in only a chemise lying in his bedroll; he would flush and try to force the image from his mind, ashamed that he'd compromised her so unfairly, even if it hadn't been his intent. He couldn't help but compare himself to the monster he'd called Father for so long, and then he'd be overwhelmed by memories of the depravities he'd seen carried out at Rendon Howe's direction.

So his desire was familiar, if tinged with shame and guilt. And he had no intention of doing anything about it; he was an Arl now, he had too much to do to indulge in liaisons with anyone, and his station meant that any affair he chose to begin would be necessarily complicated.

The unfamiliar part was…something else. He was protective of her, in a way that defied logic; she was his best rider, requested by the Commies of various camps over and over for difficult assignments, but he kept her to the shortest, safest, least taxing route despite knowing he could desperately use her skills elsewhere. He worried about her even so, and spent most of his afternoons feeling like he couldn't breathe, until she trotted into camp before supper and he could finally relax. He was hyper-aware of her, a part of him keeping track of her whereabouts all evening even when he was otherwise occupied, and his gaze was drawn to her as if by a magnet. His cheek still felt warm where she'd kissed it, and he caught himself touching the spot unconsciously all the time. He laid awake nights worrying she would become tainted during the upcoming battle, assuming she wasn't killed outright – he worried more about her than Aedan, who was fast becoming a close friend, and was at far higher risk of death.

He desired her – but he also desired something _more_ from her, and that was…odd. The thought of a brief affair, after which she would go on her way and he'd never see her again, made him feel physically sick.

This unfamiliar feeling left him uncomfortable and out-of-sorts; he would spend the nights berating himself for inappropriate thoughts, his days waiting breathlessly for her to return, and his evenings hoping pitifully for her company by the fire.

The fact that she so often provided him with the company he craved honestly just made it worse. She was unfailingly kind to him, smiling sweetly and listening intently, singing the songs she knew he liked best when she performed, saving him a meal when he was delayed in meetings – and a space by the fire. What her intentions were was a complete mystery to him. She'd seen him at his worst, malnourished, injured, bitter, drunk, and had no reason to look past his family name or his pathetic past to see the man underneath – but she did, he was certain. She saw _him_.

What that meant, when she hadn't done so much as touch his arm since she'd kissed his cheek, he couldn't fathom – and he had no idea how to go about finding out, either.


	10. Chapter 10

Ten: Leliana

Leliana had almost managed to resign herself that her – increasingly ardent – fantasies were just that: fantasy, and pure fiction. Nathaniel had shown no sign of wanting more, and as she kept reminding herself, he was a Fereldan Arl – he was never going to choose her, even if he was interested. And he'd made no overt moves to show that he was interested in her; he'd been friendly, and he still watched her the way Alistair looked at cheese, but he'd done nothing else.

But it was only 'almost' resigned. Every time she tried to quash the last tiny bit of pathetic hope that remained – the part that fostered silly daydreams of being rescued like a princess by a knight in shining armor – she'd catch his eye across the camp, and realise he'd clearly been watching her, his gaze dark and intent and unreadable, and the little shred of hope just wouldn't die.

She was somewhat ashamed at her inability to read him; she had been part of the Grand Game since she'd been a teenager, could fit in equally seamlessly with Empresses and servants alike, could negotiate conversations with masked Duchesses in her sleep without missing a single cue, but when it came to Nathaniel Howe, she hadn't the slightest idea what he was thinking behind his polite smile.

Nor could she bring herself to do more than she was; she was certainly never going to be able to approach an Arl in the army's camp and ask him if he _liked_ her, as though they were noble teens at a ball instead of nobleman and common-born messenger. There were plenty of camp followers who offered themselves freely to him and the other nobles, but that was…different. He never took any of them up on the offers, and she had no intention of being compared – even in passing, even in gossip – to one of those women. The man was handsome, but she couldn't deny she wanted more from him than a quick tumble.

So she was friendly, but never inappropriate, deferring to him as expected from a messenger working for a lord, trying to maintain a veneer of professionalism even as she watched him almost as avidly as he watched her. And she resolved, over and over, every time that hope crept up on her, that she was fine with things like this, that she had important things to do, and no time for handsome archers, no matter how attractive.

She was therefore entirely shocked the day that she saddled her horse, collected her bag full of deliveries, and climbed up wearily – after a night spent singing by the fire until far too late – to find Nathaniel, mounted on his own, beautiful roan stallion, seemingly…waiting for her?

She rode up with a smile, happy to see him but suddenly nervous about what it could mean – maybe he was leaving? Perhaps he'd been reassigned, or was reassigning her? _Was_ he even waiting for her?

He was, it turned out, waiting, and he wheeled his horse around to come alongside her so she didn't have to stop. "My Lady." Formal as always, he nodded at her, and she had to admit a little thrill in the undeserved title – as though she was _his_ lady, even though she wasn't nobility. "I have to go talk to the Knight Commander myself, and I thought we might ride together. With your permission, of course."

She nodded politely, while her mind reeled. "You are welcome, my Lord." He still winced when she called him that, and she smiled apologetically. "Nathaniel." The last was whispered, so no one but he could hear it – and she could deny it, if confronted – but he merely smiled at her approvingly. He followed her as she led the way along the track leaving the camp; it narrowed dramatically a hundred feet outside of the camp, but she knew it would widen enough that they could ride side-by-side for most of the trip. She thought frantically, wondering what they would talk about, and whether her pathetic crush would make everything totally awkward.

It turned out she needn't have worried. As he always was in the evenings at camp, he was polite and reserved, listening attentively and asking intelligent questions, effortlessly drawing her into telling stories about her past as a bard and her experiences with the Wardens. Part of her felt separate from herself, floating above them and watching, appalled, as she told him more about her past than she'd told anyone except, perhaps, Sierra. Even Dorothea hadn't heard all these stories.

Finally, she fell silent within a few minutes of the Chantry's encampment; they rode together wordlessly, and she risked peeking at him sideways, suddenly embarrassed by her run-on mouth. "I've spent this entire time talking about myself," she admitted with a sigh. "It's unforgivably rude. I apologise."

He smiled at her softly, catching her gaze and then looking away again quickly. "Not so unforgivable," he disagreed. "Your stories are far more interesting than any I could tell."

She grinned wryly. "You would say that, even if it were the furthest thing from the truth. Always the gentleman." She gulped, wondering if she'd made a mistake, flirting with him.

He pulled his horse to a stop, watching her carefully. "A gentleman?" He scoffed, and Leliana could see, when she turned back to see what kept him, that he looked uncomfortable, and she wondered if he was thinking about her, or something else. He cleared his throat to cover his discomfort. "I'm not sure that's an accurate description." His eyes were intense, and he held her gaze for a beat, and then two, until both of them blushed faintly and looked away. He kicked his horse back to a walk and fell in beside her again, leaning toward her slightly. "I'm trying to be, though. Is that a bad thing?"

Her heart beat frantically in her chest as she considered possible answers. The truth, as always, was complicated; being a gentleman had advantages, but also drawbacks. "Not always," she allowed with a small smirk. "But Sierra does have a rather charming saying: 'nice guys finish last'."

With that, she was done being brave; she spurred her horse to an easy canter and raced ahead of him as he cursed and chased her. She had timed it well, however; she disappeared around a bend, and when he followed her, she was already being swallowed up by the enormous, rigidly organised Chantry encampment. He had to slow down or risk bowling over templars and followers alike, while she had already left her horse with a convenient page and had hurried through on foot.

She spared him one last look over her shoulder as she rushed into the tent where she was to deliver her messages; he was still watching her, his expression something between astonishment and amusement, and he nodded at her ruefully as she ducked inside.


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven: Nathaniel

Knight-Commander Greagoir was a fine templar, Nate had to keep reminding himself as he listened to the man drone on and on about the mages that were supposedly at risk, assigned willy-nilly to various battalions, some – the Dalish, Nate amended in his mind – without templar guards. Greagoir was probably a talented individual with many fine qualities, the nobleman assured himself – but brevity was not one of them.

And the ridiculous conversation he was having – for at least the fifth time since he'd arrived in the Chantry's camp – was not getting any less infuriating the longer it drew out.

"Have you been with any of the battalions when they've encountered darkspawn?" Nate demanded, interrupting the persistent bastard before he could wind up for another long-winded complaint. "We simply cannot afford to alienate the Dalish by trying to arrest their mages; we need them, as messengers and archers if nothing else, if we want to win this fight. Have you forgotten Ostagar already? Not to mention, if you did try to detain them all, the dwarves and elves would join forces to stop you. I'll take my chances with mages becoming possessed over the Archdemon, Knight-Commander."

The odious old hag – er, Revered Mother – that stood beside him opened her mouth; even Greagoir frowned, his face wrinkling subtly in distaste, but Nathaniel, seeing the movement he'd been waiting for, cut her off before she could start. "That's the final word, on behalf of King Cailan, your Reverence. And I must go – His Majesty will be waiting for my report."

He turned and deliberately did not run away, instead walking quickly but calmly toward the Commie's tent. He'd stationed himself there after taking lunch with the Knight-Commander, and had been waiting ever since, knowing that if he wasn't quick, he'd miss her.

She was conversing quietly with the Commie – he couldn't hear the words, but the redhead leaned in and chuckled, a rich sound that carried across the tent, though her face was shrouded in shadow from the deep hood she'd kept pulled forward to shield her from the interminable rain. In the dim light, she looked much more dark and mysterious than normal, but to his eyes, instead of being intimidating or worrisome, she looked even more beautiful. He couldn't stop staring, so it was no surprise that she caught him, and he knew – even though he couldn't see – that her cheeks would have flushed like a shy maiden's, and her lips pulled back in an embarrassed smile. It made the corners of his own lips twitch, which he knew she'd notice, and he coughed and finally looked away.

He stepped back outside before the Commie could spot him – there was another who could talk the ear off a druffalo; it seemed to be something of a pattern for this particular camp – and stood by her horse, tightening the saddle's straps on his own while he waited. She wasn't long, and he looked up as she stepped outside the tent and froze for the briefest moment when she saw him ready to go.

"I don't know what to say, that I have the pleasure of your company twice in a day." She raised one artful eyebrow in the perfect expression of confusion – entirely fake, he was certain – and it was all he could do not to laugh. "I suppose I should feel quite special, or…something."

"Or something," he agreed, and she chuckled again. "Safety in numbers, and all that – not that I wasn't abandoned alone on the way here despite arranging myself companionship." He smirked, and her chuckle turned into a bright peal of laughter.

She approached, closer than she might have chosen since he stood next to her horse, and he held his hands out low, fingers woven together. "I'm sure you're tired, after all that riding; care for a hand up?"

She didn't quite roll her eyes, but her cheeks flushed again and he bit his lip aggressively to avoid laughing. She placed one booted foot in his makeshift stirrup, and he boosted her into her saddle. She waited for him to mount his own steed before turning and clucking to her mare softly. Nate spurred his own horse into a walk, and they left the camp together, not talking as they wove through tents and templars, sisters and camp followers.

The first half of their journey was quiet; both seemed uncertain where to start, and so neither did. The silence stretched out until it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't. Nate wasn't the type to talk endlessly about nothing, but he was still surprised by how content he was just walking alongside the beautiful bard.

It would have been perfect, in fact, if it hadn't been raining; it had drizzled on and off all day, though he'd managed to avoid the worst of it hiding in the command tent of the Chantry's encampment, but he'd rather hoped it would stop for the duration of their shared journey. He didn't have that much luck, though, he mused as he pulled the hood of his own cloak up higher and shivered as a rivulet of water snuck inside the damp cloth and trickled down his neck. It was hard to consider having a conversation with both of them hunched against the rain, both of their faces obscured by cloaks, but Nate was determined not to waste the little time alone he'd ever managed to eke out with the woman he hadn't stopped thinking about in months.

He opened his mouth to say something – anything – when he was unexpectedly flying through the air, head over heels as he was thrown from his horse. He saw a flash of grey as he flew, and heard growling, then heard the bard call out; he hit the trunk of a large sturdy tree on the side of the path, and the world went black.


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve: Leliana

If he hadn't been turning to look at her, Leliana knew, he would not have missed the pack of Blight wolves that suddenly appeared in their path – and he'd never have fallen off his horse. He'd shown himself to be a good horseman, and she was experienced enough to know from his stance that he was probably better than she'd seen so far. But he'd had his mouth open, his eyes wide, and he hadn't known the wolves were there until he'd been airborne. She thought she'd probably always feel a little bit guilty about that.

At the moment, however, she had no time for guilt; she pulled out her bow and nocked an arrow without a moment's hesitation, and loosed, skewering the first wolf to the ground, too far from her or Nathaniel to worry about for a little while. The second wolf took two arrows to fell, one in its chest and one lucky shot in the eye. Nate's horse did for the third – the poor beast was going to have to be put out of its misery after being bitten, but its hooves had caved in the skull of the Blighted creature just the same.

Leliana had managed to pull her horse around before it had caught a glimpse of the foes they faced, but the smell was still strong, musky and just wrong somehow, and it wasn't going to be long before she was fighting her mount as well as the wolves. She slid from the saddle and slapped the mare on the rump; panicked, it ran off into the woods. One wolf took off after it with a howl, but Leli knew her horse was one of the fastest in the army's stables – she'd probably be fine.

That left her with – she thought about it for a moment; had there been six wolves total, or seven? – three wolves, probably, though she could only see two from where she stood, not counting the immobilized one. Nocking another arrow, she fired at the nearest one even as it leaped at her, and it fell, whimpering, at her feet, black blood pumping out from a wound in its chest. The last wolf that she could see was on her before she could do anything else, its mouth closing around her left forearm, crushing it; she couldn't feel teeth – the leathers she wore were holding, for now – but she wasn't sure how long that could last. And the pain was nearly overwhelming.

With a cry, she pulled a dagger out of the sheath at her hip, grateful that she'd thought to carry it; she jammed the blade up under the chin of the tainted wolf, having to saw it back and forth a little to get through the thick, corrupted hide of the creature, but with a howl of pain, it released her arm and she managed to slash its throat before it could try anything else.

Panting, both from pain and fear, she crouched and spun, looking for the last wolf, only to hear a grunt and a twang; she turned back to see Nathaniel, blood dripping down the side of his face, expression vague and unfocused, lowering his bow. A wolf fell behind her, his arrow through its neck, and she paled as she realised that if Nathaniel had not woken at just that moment, she'd have been at best bitten – and at worst mauled by the wolf she hadn't seen in time. She'd have been tainted, or dead.

She turned back to Nathaniel in time to see his eyes roll back as he collapsed, bow still in hand.

Dealing with the obvious threats first, she shot the last wolf, the one with a paw pinned to the ground; her aim was off, with the one forearm screaming in agony every time she moved it, and it took three arrows to kill it. The other wolves, she cut their throats – even the apparently dead ones – just for good measure. And then she had to do the same for Nate's stallion; the poor creature was shivering, obviously in pain, but no longer thrashing, and she was able to soothe it enough to get close and put it out of its misery. She stopped to listen, once it was done, but could hear only the wind and the sound of her own, rapid breathing.

Apparently safe, she turned to Nathaniel. The nobleman had a cut overlying a large goose egg on his temple, but otherwise looked unharmed; however, he was unconscious, and no amount of careful prodding seemed to wake him up. He was breathing, though, his pulse strong, and if his short-lived period of consciousness was anything to go by, he'd probably be fine. He looked younger asleep, she noticed, the lines of worry that she hadn't even noticed smoothing out,

Her arm was another matter; she confirmed again that the skin was intact – peeling off her ruined bracer was one of the most painful things she'd ever done – but she was quite certain the forearm was broken. The pain radiated up to her elbow, and her fingers were going numb; she worried she'd lose the hand if something wasn't done quickly.

She considered her options. They were basically in the middle between the two army encampments, too far from either to go on foot; she couldn't leave an unconscious man alone in the woods anyway, and he was too large for her to carry. It was still raining, and she was starting to shiver – and if she was cold, she could only imagine that Nathaniel was freezing, lying on the ground as he was. She dug through the packs on Nate's unfortunate horse and found one small healing poultice; it wouldn't be enough for a head wound – those always healed better with a potion, or better yet, magical healing – but it might be enough to mend her arm. And then she could…

She stopped, trying to suppress her shivers, and think. What could she do then? She'd lost her horse, she had an unconscious nobleman to care for, and Maker only knew if there were more wolves around. They were both risking hypothermia, if they didn't get out of the rain. No one was expecting them, and no one was likely to be using the road until the morning, so they weren't going to be found.

She was going to have to get creative.


	13. Chapter 13

Thirteen: Nathaniel

Nathaniel woke with a terrible but familiar taste in his mouth: elfroot. His head ached worse than the worst hangover he'd ever had, and he tried to think back to what he might have been drinking that would have affected him like this. He gradually became aware of the rest of his body, as he thought; his leg was sore, the ribs on one side felt bruised, and he was almost unbearably cold – and slightly damp.

It was this last that convinced him to do something despite the pounding in his head; he reached up to cover his eyes before trying, at first unsuccessfully, to open them. After a couple more attempts, he had adjusted to the flickering light, and he turned his head to the side with a groan, suppressing the urge to vomit.

The ceiling above his head was stone, and the walls around him were as well. He was in a small circular…cave? And the entire thing was lit by the flickering light of a large bonfire just outside the entrance. He appeared to be alone, and he slowly, carefully sat up, holding his head until the dizziness waned. The cave was small – tiny, actually – barely allowing enough headroom for him to sit. As he looked around again, he spied his saddle bags up against the wall beside a stack of firewood, and realised he was sitting on a contraption made of wood and his cloak – a sledge, of sorts. It triggered his memory, and he gasped. The wolves, being thrown from his horse…where was Leliana?

As if thinking her name was some sort of magic, she appeared in the entrance to the cave, her sodden red hair shadowed by the fire behind her. "You're awake!" The relief in her voice was obvious. "Thank the Maker. That elfroot must have done its job." It was still raining outside, and he could see little streams of water pouring off her cloak.

He cleared his throat roughly. "What happened?"

She remained outside, but twisted her body to sit facing in. "We were attacked by Blighted wolves, do you remember? You were thrown from your horse. I managed to kill most of the wolves – except for the one you killed – but they bit your horse and mine ran off. I was lucky to find this cave – but we're stuck here for the night, I think."

He gestured to the wooden structure underneath him. "You pulled me here?" She nodded. "Thank you."

She grinned, and water dripped off her nose. "Well I couldn't very well go back to camp without you, yes? I doubt the King would be forgiving if I left one of his supporters unconscious in the woods just to save my own neck."

He raised one eyebrow, and his lips curled in a smirk. "I'll have to thank his Majesty later, then, for not being abandoned."

She giggled, though it was interrupted by a shiver, and little droplets of water scattered off her.

"Is there a reason you're sitting out there in the rain?" He scrabbled back until he bumped into the wall of the tiny cave, trying to make space. He gestured for her to come in.

"There's no room," she objected, "and it's partially covered out here. Besides, you've been injured."

"So have you." He pointed at her bare forearm, still wrapped in bandages. "And you've got to be cold. Please, Leliana."

She sat for another moment and he thought she might refuse, but then she was struck with another body-shaking shiver, and she sighed and crawled into the cave, close enough he could reach out to touch her, if he'd wanted to. Water sluiced off her cloak – fortunately flowing towards the mouth of the cave – and she settled facing the entrance, her knee just touching his.

"I'm amazed you got a fire going, actually."

She hummed in response, and as he squinted at her in the dim light, he realised her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles flexing under the skin. "Leliana? Are you alright?"

She nodded sharply. "I'm f-fine."

Nathaniel frowned; had he actually heard her teeth chatter, or was he imagining it? He reached out to touch her, and his fingertips came into contact with her bare arm. She was freezing to the touch, and he almost recoiled from the brief tremor the cold caused. Instead he wrapped his hand around the slender appendage – he wasn't warm, but by comparison he knew he probably felt scalding to her. She shuddered, sucking in a breath through her teeth, and this time he was sure he could hear her teeth chattering.

"You're not fine. You're freezing!"

"I'll be fine," she replied – or she tried to, but she was shaking too hard to speak properly, and the words came out slurred.

His hand trailed from her forearm up to her shoulder, and he swore when he realised just how wet she was. She must have been out there for hours, dragging him to safety, collecting firewood and elfroot, and it should have occurred to him how chilled she would be. She was trying to be stoic, but he'd been in enough situations over the years to know just how serious this was. Hypothermia was nothing to sneeze at.

"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but…you're soaked. And cold. And if we don't do something about both of those things, it'll be Aedan and Sierra murdering me when I get back to camp without you because you died of hypothermia."

She tried to laugh, but her breath just wheezed out of her alarmingly. "What did you have in mind, then?"

He sighed. "I hate to risk what you're going to think of me later, but frankly, you have to get out of that wet armour."

She looked over at him, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips despite their rather blue hue. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

He chuffed out a surprised laugh. "I think it's just you." The silence that followed that was uncomfortably quiet, and he cleared his throat. "Can I help you with the buckles?"

Between the two of them, they stripped off Leliana's leather armour and her sodden cloak, leaving her just in a thin cotton chemise – fortunately it was long, but it still left her legs bare, and left little else to the imagination, given how wet it was. Nate, determined not to look at her inappropriately, dug through his saddlebags, but everything in there was equally soaked, and he sighed in frustration.

"I'm sorry, Leliana."

"It's all right." She clenched her jaw against another shiver. "I'll be fine here."

"Nonsense." He sighed again. "This isn't exactly how I imagined today going, but…"


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen: Leliana

Watching Nathaniel relieve himself of his own armour was surreal, Leliana reflected; she'd dreamed of being alone with him, but not like this. Like her, he wore only thin cotton under his damp gambeson, though he at least had trousers as well as a tunic. Once he'd piled his armour with hers near the entrance to the cave, he sat back, propping himself up with the sledge she'd made and opening his arms.

She stared at him, butterflies playing havoc with her stomach, but she couldn't deny her head was starting to feel foggy from the cold, and another spasm wracked her body when a tiny gust of wind from the storm picking up outside ruffled her hair. With an oath, she got up and crawled over to him, cheeks aflame as she settled herself in front of him and leaned back into his arms.

He gasped when he came into contact with her frigid skin; she tried to pull away, but he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer so that her body was in contact with his from shoulders to feet. She shuddered, the heat of him feeling scalding against her cold skin, and he shifted slightly to try to cover more of her with his arms.

"I apologise for taking the liberty, my Lady," he whispered formally, his lips almost brushing her ear as he held her close. "I swear to be a complete _gentleman,_ " he teased, repeating her word from earlier in the day.

Leliana's teeth were chattering, her skin freezing – but her heart was pounding as though it hadn't even noticed. She was acutely aware of every part of her that was in contact with him, not just because of the warmth, but also the distracting tingling sensation she felt because it was _Nathaniel_ and he was _touching her_. Her head was still swimming from the cold, but she didn't think she'd be able to blame that for throwing all caution to the wind with her reply.

"I'm not sure whether to be relieved, or disappointed, my Lord."

He froze, the tension in his arms and legs obvious with her pressed against him as she was. She held her breath, worried about how he would respond; it was so inappropriate, she knew, and he was always so deliberate and cautious. He had shown no indication that he cared for her, and in fact seemed only exasperated by the need to keep her warm; there was no way he was going to flirt with her, and she steeled herself to have to separate herself from his thrilling warmth. She was completely unprepared for him to suddenly relax, wrapping his arms more tightly around her even as he chuckled lowly in her ear.

"Is that so?" He leaned closer, his cheek and chin coming into contact with the back of her neck, the side of his nose grazing the shell of her ear lightly, and she shivered for a reason that had nothing to do with the cold. "I _have_ been told, by a reliable source, that nice guys finish last."


	15. Chapter 15

Fifteen: Nathaniel

She giggled and turned her head, lashing him with her damp hair, and he sputtered while she laughed. When she settled back down, she tilted her head back until he could press his forehead against her skull, his breath ruffling her hair. His heart was in his throat, and he felt deliriously short of breath.

"Leliana?"

"Yes, Nathaniel?"

He could feel the vibration caused by her voice against his forehead, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled, her scent somehow exotic despite the undertones of horse and wet leather.

"I have some…questions, if you would indulge me." He felt her nod, and he swallowed thickly as he thought frantically. He was fascinated by the bard but hadn't been confident until today that she returned any interest – and he didn't want to make assumptions that were unwarranted. "This morning, while we were riding, you mentioned Marjolaine."

He paused, uncertain how to proceed. She'd told him many stories, and while none of them were salacious, the way she'd talked about her former mentor, well…

He was interrupted by her sigh. "I should have realised." She tilted her head the opposite way, breaking the contact with him, and his heart sank. "You wonder about the nature of our relationship, yes?"

He couldn't deny that he was worried about exactly that; it hadn't occurred to him until their morning ride that perhaps she wasn't interested in him for reasons that had nothing to do with his family or his character. "Well…"

She was silent for a moment, and he felt sick. Had he made assumptions he shouldn't have? Had he offended her by asking?

She finally responded. "Marjolaine and I were lovers. But that's been over for years, now, and she is dead, yes?"

He gulped and decided to be reckless. She'd flirted with him; surely she could see why he'd be hesitant. "So where does that leave us?"

She turned then, her profile just visible in the firelight through the cave entrance. "I am…that is, I…" She fell silent again, but just as he thought she wasn't going to answer him, she barked out a strangled laugh. "Maker's bride, this is difficult. And here I found Sierra's uncanny knowledge unsettling at first – who knew it was also convenient?" She shook her head briefly. "Very well. I am not that… particular… No, that sounds worse." His shoulders shook in silent laughter, and she sighed. "I do not choose my lovers based upon what Sierra would call 'plumbing'. Beauty and comfort can be found in many different packages, no?"

His mind spun, a whirlwind of relief and awkwardness and a number of other emotions he couldn't readily name, and he didn't immediately reply – which, of course, made things worse.

She stiffened in his arms. "I suppose it's not the most…conventional history. I can see how that might upset—"

"No!" It was too loud, and it made them both jump. He tightened his arms almost unconsciously. "Maker, no, that doesn't bother me. I was just worried…" He couldn't say it. He tried, opening his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. "I'm relieved," he said instead, lamely. Rolling his eyes at his own ineptness, he shook his head, and it was her turn to shake with laughter.

"Where were you hoping it would leave us, my Lord?" Her voice had gone husky, and it sent shivers up his spine. She turned her head, leaning to the side so she could face him more directly.

He relaxed his hold on her but didn't let go, both because he was worried about her getting chilled again and because he just liked the way she felt in his arms. She was lithe but soft in all the right places, and it was becoming harder and harder to think dispassionately with her there, so close and yet he wanted her closer. He reached up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into his hand slightly, her skin still chilly to the touch.

He leaned forward as he tilted her chin up; they slowly approached each other, gazes locked until she licked her lips and he couldn't help but focus there instead. He paused with a bare inch between them; he could feel her breath on his face, but couldn't hear over the pounding of his own heart. He waited there, giving her the chance to object or pull away; she didn't.

He finally closed the gap, pressing his lips softly against hers. She responded in kind, and he hummed as he moved the hand on her cheek to weave his fingers into her hair, holding her close. The kiss drew out until they were both breathless; with a gasp, Nathaniel pulled back, pecking her lips gently once and then again. He pressed his forehead against hers while he caught his breath, both of them twisted uncomfortably – but Nate, at least, couldn't have cared less.

"I've wanted to do that for…"

She chuckled. "For how long?"

"Since the moment I saw you," he blurted. "Maker, I shouldn't have said that."

"Well, I have been waiting for almost the same length of time, so…"

He silenced her with another kiss – this one considerably less chaste than the first. He flicked his tongue against her lower lip, then swallowed her sigh as she parted her lips slightly. He sucked her plump lower lip into his mouth, nibbling at it lightly, before taking advantage of her gasp to delve more deeply into her willing mouth. Her taste was intoxicating, wild and sweet, and their tongues danced as he pursued it.

With a groan, she twisted in his arms, snaking one arm around his neck to hold him to her. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, his other hand still stroking her damp hair. They sat like that for what felt like hours, barely pausing to catch their breath before being drawn back together as if by magic.


	16. Chapter 16

Sixteen: Leliana

When she finally pulled away, panting, Leliana's lips were tender and swollen from kissing, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck as he adjusted his position and wrapped both arms around her again. She was surprisingly comfortable, his strong arms cradling her against his chest and sharing his warmth. She was still cold, not that she'd paid any attention to that recently, and he shuddered as her cold nose pressed against his skin.

He was an incredible kisser, she had to admit – clearly those Free Marches girls had given him some lessons – and she'd lost herself entirely to the simple pleasure of just kissing. Now that she could breathe again and her head had stopped reeling, the worries she'd been suppressing came back into focus.

He was Fereldan. She was Orlesian. He was a nobleman, she a commoner. He was a straight-forward, honest type with an Arling to run and roots already put down; her likely future was as a spy, and she wasn't going to be able to stay in the same place for any length of time.

They were doomed – before they even got started.

And yet, though she knew she should stop it there before things went any further, the thought of telling him that made her feel ill. She wanted his kisses, needed them; she wanted to taste him and feel his hands in her hair and, and…more, and even though she knew he was going to break her heart, she knew she wouldn't walk away.

 _I'll just take whatever I can get – and learn to live with the loss later._

"Leliana?" His voice was rough in a way that made her smile against his neck.

"Yes?"

He shifted her a little so he could look down into her face. "How are you feeling?" He smiled at her, a small crooked thing that made her heart pound far faster than any big, charming grin ever had, and she cherished it.

"Still cold, but tolerable, thank you."

"Don't thank me – I'd be dead if it weren't for you. The least I can do is be a human…" He paused, seeming lost for words.

"Human bed warmer?" She giggled, and he smirked. Her giggle was interrupted by a huge yawn, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. "I wonder how late it is?"

"Late enough." He squeezed her lightly. "You should get some sleep. I don't think any wildlife will bother us with that fire outside, but I'll keep watch for a while."

She shook her head, but he pressed one finger to her lips before she could say anything. "I slept all afternoon while you took care of me, and I'm not the one who almost froze to death. Sleep."

She grinned wickedly at him and moved, quick like a snake, to gently bite the finger he'd left extended. He gasped and laughed and groaned all at the same time, his dark eyes all but invisible in the dim firelight – but she knew if she could see him clearly, his expression would be priceless, torn between exasperation and arousal. Satisfied, she crawled out of his lap to help him add wood to the fire, then settled down again in his arms and dozed off.

Her dreams were filled with dark figures in the distance – always slipping away from her, and she could never catch up, no matter how hard she tried.


	17. Chapter 17

Seventeen: Nathaniel

He watched her sleep for hours, in the end, reluctant to wake her after everything she'd been through during the day. She slept with her mouth slightly open, her face looking younger when slack, and he'd contented himself to hold her, shifting his grip periodically to avoid cramping up – and to make sure he warmed all of her as much as he could.

He hadn't been joking when he said she'd saved his life; he'd seen what happened to people who'd been bitten by Blight wolves, and it wasn't pretty. She'd fought off an entire pack of them, alone, all while protecting him – and then she'd found shelter, carried him there, and spent the rest of the evening collecting firewood and elfroot in the rain.

He was never going to be able to repay her.

Which just made him even more uneasy. He'd been fascinated by the beautiful bard from the start – not only her sweet voice and pretty face, but also her certainty and faith, her self-assurance and optimism even in the face of her apparent intimate familiarity with torture. It wasn't surprising that he would be attracted to her – but he should also know better.

He was a Howe. The son of the worst monster Ferelden had seen since King Meghren. His family name and honour were destroyed, and any personal regard the few nobles on speaking terms with him gave him was due mostly to pity. The entire country hated him – the Amaranthine folks would despise him for not being his father, and the rest would scorn him for his blood-relation to the maniac. He was expected to take over an Arling full of nobles who'd only ever followed Rendon because he bribed or threatened them to, and commoners who'd been abused by his father and the other nobles for years. He was already aware of threats on his life – and he didn't think the conspirators would hesitate to involve anyone he cared for in their games.

He didn't have a problem with them coming after him; he was prepared for it, knew the likely players and how they worked, and had the support of the King in dealing with it – but he'd walk willingly into the Void before he allowed someone else to paint themselves a target by associating with him.

And yet…

She could take care of herself – that much was obvious. Honestly, he pitied any stupid noble who thought she'd be an easy way to get at him; Leliana would eat an old hag like Esmerelle for breakfast. In her sleep. That wouldn't save her from the terrible things that would happen to her reputation, though, and yet…the idea of walking away from her, when he'd only just managed to even approach her…

He couldn't. He wouldn't, not unless things got too dangerous. He'd keep things discreet, keep an eye on her, keep his ear to the ground for signs that danger was coming – he thought Aedan might help with that – and he'd defend her with his last breath.

Especially if it meant spending more time with her.

And when she realised that being with him was harmful to her future and she left him, well…he'd let her go, hiding his sorrow and wishing her well. And then he'd have to hope the memories were enough to carry him through the inevitable marriage to 'good breeding stock' – not that he was sure he'd even find such a noblewoman willing to marry a reviled _Howe_. Not in Ferelden, at any rate.

Leliana murmured in her sleep, her brow furrowing; she'd seemed to have some bad dreams, at first, but they'd calmed after an hour or so, and now she just couldn't quite seem to settle down entirely, leaving her asleep but somewhat restless. He whispered to her, humming old half-remembered lullabies and smoothing back her hair, and she subsided again.

Maker's breath!

He was in so. Much. Trouble.


	18. Chapter 18

Eighteen: Leliana

The morning dawned sunny, for the first time in forever. Leliana woke, still wrapped in Nathaniel's arms, finally starting to warm up as warm sunlight shone through the cave's opening. She heard snoring, and realised that the handsome archer must have finally fallen asleep.

She blushed when she remembered the night they'd spent, the kissing…Andraste preserve, had she actually bit him? She rolled her eyes at her own impulsive antics.

She sat up carefully to look down on the nobleman, whose head was tilted back, his mouth partially open. The lines of pain that had been present on his face – emotional pain, not physical; she'd checked with Wynne and Anders both – since they'd first met were gone, faint wrinkles around his eyes the only sign they'd ever existed. She allowed herself to stare at him until she'd had her fill, memorising his thick, dark hair, his full lips, his light stubble – so different from the unkempt, near-beard he'd had when they met – and the small patch of hair under his lip. A 'soul-patch', Sierra called it, and it irritated the dark-haired Earthwoman to no end, but Leliana appreciated how it made his mouth look more…sensuous, somehow. She sat up further to admire his muscular shoulders and biceps, noticeable despite the long-sleeved cotton tunic he wore.

She found herself wishing for Sierra's little device to take a picture of him, relaxed in sleep and so beautiful. She was watching at him, lost in thought, and was startled when he opened one grey eye and favoured her with that little, lopsided smile she'd never seen him give anyone else.

"Staring is rude, you know."

She grinned and fought to suppress her blush. "I wasn't staring."

"Oh?"

"I was admiring. There is a difference." She sniffed primly and was rewarded with the low chuckle that made goosebumps run up her spine.

"Well, far be it for me to interrupt you, my lady." He closed his eyes again. "Carry on."

She giggled, and he opened both eyes, smirking at her triumphantly. He reached up to touch her cheek, his thumb barely grazing her lips. "You have the most beautiful voice in the world."

She shifted, lifting herself up and settling again, now straddling his thighs, her arms around his shoulders, facing him. His hands fell naturally on her waist, his warmth making her skin tingle through the thin cloth of her chemise. She leaned down to kiss him, and he responded fervently, opening his mouth with a groan and teasing her with his tongue until her own challenged his and she lost herself in his kiss.

His hands slid down her hips – almost involuntarily, she thought in the small portion of her mind that wasn't thoroughly addled – and then she gasped when one hand gently gripped her ass, the other sliding further down to tease her bare thigh with his fingers. When he registered the gasp, he pulled away, expression contrite; his hands returned to her waist, and he opened his mouth to speak.

She didn't give him a chance; she kissed him again, almost desperately, and then used her own hands to direct his back to where they'd been – only this time, both were underneath the flimsy cotton of her only clothing.

She could feel his erection against her inner thigh, his hand stroking the smooth pale skin on the opposite side; she wriggled, pressing her pelvis against his, and they both groaned at the contact. He abandoned her lips to kiss his way down her chin to her long, sensitive neck; the hand on her ass relocated, and he weaved his fingers into her hair to tilt her head back further as he kissed and nibbled his way down to her collar bone. Like everything else she'd seen him do, he was methodical and deliberate, making sure he lavished attention on every inch of her skin with his mouth, soothing every bite with a kiss. He stopped short of marking her – she couldn't even decide if she was happy about that, or disappointed – but he had the left side of her neck practically quivering at his touch when he switched, cautiously, to repeat the process on her right.

She continued to squirm in his lap, sending sparks into her core as she ground against him; she was just considering whether she could rid herself of her tunic without interrupting his erotic ministrations, when his fingers stilled on her thigh and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, panting slightly.

"I apologise, my Lady, for beginning something I cannot currently finish."

Her eyebrows rose. "Cannot?" She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice – her body was on fire, and she wanted nothing more than to continue from where he'd left off.

He winced, and her heart dropped into her stomach. "Will not," he clarified, and she nearly whimpered in despair. "You're injured – and so am I – and we've both been through something terrifying and life-threatening in the last day. I will not be the kind of cad who takes advantage of someone under those circumstances."

He wasn't wrong, she knew – she'd be devastated if it turned out what had motivated him was gratitude, for example, so she could understand that he might have similar concerns – but that didn't stop the nausea building inside her at the apparent rejection. What if this was it? What if, when they returned to camp, he changed his mind and she never saw him again? How much worse, if she had given herself to him first? Yet somehow, she wanted to anyway – to be with him, just this once, _just in case_.

He must have read some of that in the expression on her face, because he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her sternum, right between her breasts, making her twitch in surprise. "Besides," he whispered, urging her head down so he could get closer to her ear, "the first time we make love, if you consent to it, it will certainly not be in a dirty, freezing cave if I have anything to say about it." His nose skimmed along the shell of her ear, and she squeaked in response – it was a completely undignified reaction, but an honest one, and she curled her fingers into the fabric of his own tunic in frustration.

"The first time?" She knew he'd hear the irritation, but also the insecurity, in her voice.

He merely chuckled warmly in her ear, and she shivered despite herself.


	19. Chapter 19

Nineteen: Nathaniel

Now she'd managed to distract him with imagining their first time – and the second, and the third, preferably all in the same night. They'd both laughed uncomfortably, and then avoided eye contact as they'd extracted themselves from the rather intimate embrace they'd found themselves in.

Getting dressed had been somewhat awkward; there was little room inside the tiny cave, so they nearly couldn't avoid accidentally bumping into each other as they attempted to don their respective armour. Both sets of leathers were still damp, making it rather like they were squirming into clingy second skins rather than armour. Not that he didn't enjoy the view he had of the bard as she attempted to get her armour over her legs without accidentally exposing anything else.

Making the decision to wait, instead of taking her up on her implicit offer was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. She'd been there, half naked and gorgeous and grinding herself against his lap, and he had been stunned by just how badly he'd wanted to break his celibate streak right then and there. But he wanted so much more than just sex with this woman, and he wouldn't take the chance that she felt pressured – or just unimpressed with his effort. She deserved to be romanced, showered with gifts and read poetry, not tumbled on the ground of some nasty cave. He was going to have to up his game if he ever hoped to deserve her.

But she had nice legs, and the view as she shimmied herself into her armour…yeah, the view was nice.

He blushed when she caught him staring – and then chuffed out a surprised laugh when all she did was wiggle her hips at him, purposefully provocative now, with a wide grin. His own armour grew even more uncomfortable, and he sent a brief prayer of thanks to the Maker that the thick leather would at least disguise that fact.

And then, when he bent over and preceded her out of the little cave, she whistled – a loud, obnoxious, appreciative whistle. He laughed, right out loud, for the first time in…

He didn't want to think about that.

They walked in comfortable silence, back in the direction Leliana indicated. There were obvious marks where she'd dragged him through the underbrush on her improvised sledge, so it was easy to follow them back to the main path where they'd been ambushed. He tried not to stare at her while they walked, but despite his best efforts, she caught him looking several times anyway. Each time she'd giggle, and he'd blush; they'd both look away, but it wasn't long before he'd find himself watching her again.

He helped her over a fallen tree blocking their way – not that she needed it, but it was only polite. Once she'd stepped down, he kept her hand, and his heart beat a little faster when she just curled her fingers around his with a light squeeze.

Finally he could take the silence no more. "Leliana?"

She smiled at him. He swallowed, trailing to a halt, his grip on her hand pulling her to a stop as well.

"Do you wish to let people know about…" He wasn't sure what to call it. Maker, he was making such a fool of himself.

She frowned. "I do not know. What would we even say?" She shot him a look that probably mirrored the puzzlement on his own face. "I do not wish to be a 'dirty secret,' but neither do I want to field questions about us when we're…" He waited to see what she would say, curious how she would classify things. "…just getting started."

He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. "I don't want you to think I am ashamed of you." He reached up to cup her cheek, and she stepped closer to him until he could wrap his other arm around her waist. "But I don't want you being made a target, either."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Target?"

He sighed. "I…yes. There are multiple threats we are aware of. People who were promised wealth by my father, or people who wish revenge for me foiling his plans, as well as people he's harmed who want vengeance. Fortunately, the Blight – and King Cailan's favour – have delayed them, for now. But I will have to deal with it eventually. I don't wish for you to be caught in the middle."

"Who?" she demanded, apparently incensed. She put her hands on her hips, her expression fierce, and his heart throbbed once in his chest.

He chuckled. "It's nothing I hadn't expected – and nothing I can't handle. My gut tells me Bann Esmerelle is at the heart of most of it; she was my father's closest ally, and his lover, if you believe the gossip." He gave a disgusted grunt. "I'll deal with her as soon as I've settled things at the Vigil. Either way, it's probably a good thing no one has really seen us together, even if I do wish – selfishly – that you'd said something to me sooner."

"Say something? Me? A common messenger, an _Orlesian_ , say something to a Fereldan Arl? What should I have said? 'Would you like to ruin your political reputation, your Lordship?' Or how about 'Care to take a tumble with an underling, Arl Howe?' Or…" She sighed, the reality of the situation hitting her. "Maker, what was I thinking? I seem to have lost track of all of my common sense."

"No, no." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Please. I don't have a reputation to ruin, nor do I care one bit about you being Orlesian. You're not anyway, and there's a lot more to you than just your accent. If anything, my family name should have you running away – to save yourself from my reputation." He grunted. "And my would-be assassins."

She pressed her face against his shoulder, then looked up with a determined expression. "I'm not going anywhere. If nothing else, I shall help you with these threats – regardless of what happens between us."

He groaned, and then tilted her chin up and kissed her thoroughly. When they were both breathless, he broke off the kiss with a sigh. "I…" He almost said the words, but couldn't finish the statement, even though it was clear to him, in that moment – stupidly, illogically, probably regrettably – that he meant them in a way he'd never felt before. "Thank you," he said instead.


	20. Chapter 20

Twenty: Leliana

Returning to camp took less time than Leliana would have liked; they were discovered by a patrol after they'd walked only a few minutes on the trail where they'd been ambushed. King Cailan had noted that they – or really, Nathaniel – was missing and had sent out search parties at sunrise. As the patrol hadn't realised they would find Leliana with their missing Arl, they'd only brought one spare mount, but neither archer could bring themselves to complain about sharing.

As they rode, Nathaniel amused her with sarcastic and witty comments whispered in her ear, which she couldn't react to without the soldiers figuring out their game; she punished him by shifting imperceptibly in the saddle, ensuring that she brushed up against him suggestively, relishing the gasps and stutters she could hear each time. By the time they reached the King's camp, they were both breathless and aroused – but they also both had duties to attend to.

Nathaniel promised to see her at the campfire after supper, bowing to her formally and weaving his way towards the command tent. He'd insisted she take the day off – and truthfully, someone else would have been assigned to ride her usual route already – so she had some time. She felt edgy, torn between wishing the evening would come sooner, and hoping it would never come. Her doubts had returned as soon as Nathaniel had disappeared from sight.

Muttering to herself irritably, still feeling tired and cold, she liberated a bucket each of hot and cold water from the firepit where they were kept, and then trudged to her tent – reminded of Nathaniel again by the Amaranthine Bear on the fabric of the tent and her blankets – and washed. When done, wrapping herself in warm, dry bedclothes, she fell into her bedroll and was asleep before she remembered hitting the pillow.

Her dreams were of a far naughtier variety than the night before; she woke, groaning in frustration, right before she would have attained satisfaction in the dream. It didn't make for a pleasant mood, and she flopped gracelessly onto her back, working to calm her breath and her racing heart.

"My Lady?" she heard through the wall of the tent; Nathaniel was clearly outside, but she wondered if he'd overheard her wordless complaints.

She sat up abruptly, ran her hands through her hair and looked around. She was covered; her hair was probably stuck to the side of her head since she'd fallen asleep with it wet, but otherwise she was presentable. She grabbed her brush and took a quick couple of swipes through her hair before responding.

"Come in, Nathaniel."

He appeared at the tent flap almost too quickly, and she suppressed a giggle. He looked tired, dark shadows under his eyes and his complexion pale. But he was smiling at her – a self-conscious, lopsided smile but a smile none-the-less – and her earlier misgivings were immediately forgotten. She patted the end of her bedroll, and he sat down carefully, reaching out to graze the back of her hand with a single fingertip.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"You haven't slept – probably worked all afternoon, yes? – and you're worried about me?" She turned her hand, planning to catch hold of his, but he pulled away too quickly. "Nathaniel?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I shouldn't have disturbed you."

"What is wrong? Please, talk to me." This time she reached across, taking his hand firmly in her own. "Tell me."

He nodded, putting one finger to his lips in a shushing motion – and said the opposite with his words. "It's nothing. Just my head – it's still aching." He gestured to her to lean in, clearly intending to whisper.

Seeing his hesitation as a potential rejection of what they'd shared, and the future she wanted to explore with him, instead she shifted, lifting up onto her knees and crawling over to him until she straddled his lap. He stiffened for a brief, surprised moment, but didn't push her away or object; he tilted his face up to look into her eyes, and accepted a brief kiss, his hands falling naturally to her waist. She turned her head slightly so his lips would be next to her ear.

"Someone searched my tent while I was gone," he whispered. "I noticed it when I went to change. It's a good thing I'm paranoid." She huffed a breath of laughter that ruffled his hair. "And there are rumours that soon I will 'no longer be a burden' to the people of Amaranthine. That elf – the Antivan?" She nodded her understanding; Zevran made an excellent spy when he wanted to. "He got wind of it. Thinks I'm going to be assassinated tonight."

She frowned. "Well, you can't go back to your tent then, obviously," she whispered, turning so her lips brushed his ear. "Or, let me guess – you're planning to use yourself as bait."

He sighed. "I must," he insisted quietly. "I need to know—"

She interrupted him impatiently. "Who sent them. Of course." Her eyes narrowed. "Well, if we are going to do this, then we'd best make some plans then, no?"


	21. Chapter 21

Twenty-One: Nathaniel

The whole thing had gotten completely out of hand. Nathaniel sighed and tried to object for what had to be the fiftieth time since this plan had been suggested.

"It's simply too dangerous, Leliana. I won't allow you – or anyone else – to be hurt in my stead. This is my problem—"

"And this is how you're going to solve it, yes? You're going to get help from others who have more specific experience in this area."

He turned to the King, hoping for some support. "Your Majesty, surely you don't think—"

Cailan laughed. "Don't look at me for help. I spent most of a year bored to tears in Redcliffe while people fought and died for me, all for the greater good, or so they tell me. You'll get absolutely no sympathy from me!"

Leliana giggled. "Poor man." She sobered a little and turned to Nate earnestly. "Zevran is already in place anyway. We can't stop now without the conspirators realising that we're onto them. It's too late, my Lord."

"Look," Aedan said, "we've got this. But it won't work without you. Zev knows what he's doing, and I'll be watching too. But we need you on board. Are you with me?"

Nathaniel sighed reluctantly. "Not that I apparently have any choice in the matter…but fine. Let's go."

The plan, such as it was, was simple. The problem was that it put Zevran in danger, and the worry made Nate's stomach ache. Not that the assassin was weak or incompetent – he was a professional; Nathaniel just wasn't comfortable with someone else taking his risks.

But he'd been over-ruled – and now he would have to live with the consequences.

Leliana was called away on a last-minute delivery; dutifully she mounted her horse and rode out of camp in a rush.

Playing his part, Nathaniel approached the command tent alone. After a few minutes of quiet discussion, he stood meekly while Cailan shouted at him; for his part, the King was enjoying the theatre of it and worked himself into a right froth, upbraiding Nathaniel for some imaginary mistake. Finally creeping out of the tent, face red with suppressed laughter – though he hoped anyone watching would assume it was shame or anger – Nate strolled over to the Wardens' fire, like he did every evening. This time, though, instead of sitting alone as he usually did, he accepted the dwarf's offer of a sympathy drink. Oghren was crudely amusing, almost always drunk – though apparently recently had become less…sloppy was the word Sierra had used for it – and constantly challenged those around him to drinking contests. Faking his own shame, grunting something about needing a drink after the day he'd had, Nate took up the challenge and proceeded to gulp something from the flask the dwarf held out. Afterwards, they took turns swigging from that and the bottle of Antivan rum that Nate produced.

After a while, Aedan joined them around the fire, commiserating with Nathaniel about his public fall from favour. They drank a toast together, and Nate drank noisily. Over the course of the next few hours, he continued to drink steadily; the dwarf eventually moved on, but he left his flask behind and Nathaniel continued taking swigs. He became progressively louder and more vocal as he drank, cursing the king, the darkspawn, his father, and anyone else he could think of – before becoming maudlin and degenerating into sloppy, drunken declarations of affection, and finally falling into a sodden heap, sobbing on an amused Aedan's shoulder.

"All right, my friend, I think it's time for you to go sleep it off," Aedan laughed, pulling the flask out of a protesting Nate's hands. "Come on, up you get."

Doing a rather convincing impression of a dead body, Nate flopped to the ground as Aedan got up, and the Warden groaned as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the nobleman to his feet. After several more attempts, Aedan finally grabbed the first sober-appearing soldier who walked by the fire.

"You there! Give me a hand, would you?" Aedan asked.

"Yes, my Lord…Maker, what's that smell? Augh!"

Between them, the Warden and the soldier managed to heave the pungent, uncooperative Nathaniel to his feet and support him in an upright position; it took several minutes to half-drag, half-carry him the short distance across camp to his small tent. They had to recruit a third person – another nearby soldier – to help shove him into the tent, and the cursing could be heard all across the camp as they wrestled him inside and tried to loosen his clothes.

Finally Aedan declared it was close enough; leaving the snoozing Nate on top of his bedroll, fully clothed but at least with his boots off, Aedan and the two soldiers crawled out of the tent and went their separate ways. It was late; the patrolling guards on watch were far from the nobles' tents, and most of the torches had been extinguished. To all outward appearances, the camp went to sleep.

A/N: I didn't get the chance to post yesterday; real life sucks, sometimes. I should be back to daily posts until Monday – when I will miss likely several days because I'm having surgery. Just fair warning!


	22. Chapter 22

Twenty-Two: Leliana

Leliana yawned, fighting the urge to stretch. Unlike Zevran, she'd never trained for stealth or ambush; her strengths ran to seduction and manipulation. She'd never practiced lying in wait, motionless, for a target.

But there was no one else she'd trust to do this, no one with her aim – or her motivation to do the job well. So she stifled a sigh and remained still, watching over the darkened camp like a hawk. She was grateful for Anders; he'd known a spell to temporarily sharpen her vision, so it seemed as though it was mid-day, instead of the dark, moonless night it actually was.

She had watched her friends all evening, tracking the movements of the soldiers around them diligently. She had waited, unnoticed, while Aedan had poured Nathaniel into his tent. And now she watched as a dark shape detached itself from the shadows of another tent and slipped silently towards her sleeping…whatever he was. Lover wasn't the word – yet, if she had anything to say about it – but she didn't have another to describe what Nathaniel meant to her.

But all of that would be moot if she allowed her attention to wander at the critical moment. She rolled her eyes at herself – Sierra was going to bust a gut laughing at her when she found out, Leliana knew – and sighted down the length of her nocked arrow. The soldier from before, the one Aedan had recruited to help him, paused outside of Nate's tent, glancing surreptitiously around to see if anyone was nearby. Leliana had been watching long enough to know that no simple soldier had any reason to be in this part of the camp so late at night. He moved gracefully – too gracefully. Leliana drew her arm back, holding the bow steady, arrow poised to fire. _This is it._

The soldier slipped silently inside the tent. At first nothing happened, but then there was a muffled shout. Nathaniel's tent lit up with the blue glow of an arcane lamp, and Leliana could see the silhouette of three male bodies grappling in the confined space. With an oath that echoed across the camp, a narrow blade emerged from the side of the tent and slid down quickly, tearing a rent in the fabric. Leliana waited, breathlessly, finally loosing the arrow she held as an arm and then an entire, unfamiliar upper body emerged from the hole. Her aim was perfect, piercing through the leather gauntlet the soldier wore and pinning his forearm to the ground with an audible thunk. The soldier let out a pained grunt as he tried to yank his arm off the arrow.

A compact, blonde-haired body came flying through the wall of the tent next, landing crouched on top of the immobilized soldier; dagger in hand and pressed to the vulnerable neck of the man underneath him, Zevran looked every inch the assassin he'd been trained to be, and the soldier started stuttering out pleas and apologies almost instantly.

Zevran ignored him. "Help the Arl!" he cried.

Leliana's stomach churned, suddenly feeling like she'd swallowed a lead weight. Had something happened to Nathaniel? She'd never forgive herself if he'd been injured, especially so soon after recovering from a major head injury. She slid out of the tree where she'd been perched for hours, and almost dropped to her knees as her stiff legs refused to hold her.

Using her bow as an improvised walking stick, she limped across the camp as fast as she could manage; Aedan beat her into the tent, and she relaxed as she heard the nobleman curse at the Warden through the thin walls.

"Let me up! I'm fine."

"Nate…"

"It's not my blood, Aedan. I managed to give the bastard a bloody nose. I'm fine!"

Leliana glanced at Zevran, who nodded at her and winked cheekily; he remained perched on top of the would-be assassin and looked to have made himself comfortable. He lazily slapped the man when he tried to speak again, and the soldier lapsed into a sullen silence. Satisfied that the elf had it under control, Leliana crouched and crawled into Nathaniel's tent just in time to see Aedan help him up. The false tent wall behind which Zevran had been hiding was torn and hanging awkwardly, and the legs of Zevran's captive protruded through the hole in the tent, his feet twitching periodically. The dark-haired noble had a dramatic bruise forming under one eye, but he grinned at her impishly anyway, and she chuckled.

"Ready to go meet the man who tried to kill you, my Lord?" She arched one eyebrow at him artfully.

"Bah," he scoffed. "It was barely an attempt."

Rolling her eyes, Leliana preceded him out of the tent. Aedan followed, and the three of them gathered around the prone soldier the elf was kneeling on. The soldier paled, seeing Nathaniel apparently uninjured and surrounded by allies – bearing weapons that were trained on him unflinchingly.

"Let him up," Nate commanded, and Zevran obliged, leaping to his feet adroitly. The man tried to rise, but failed, given his forearm still pinned to the dirt.

Leliana leaned down and grabbed the shaft of the arrow; the man cried out in pain as she snapped it off just above his arm. "Better than pulling it back out the way it went in, yes?" she snarked, earning herself a dirty look. "We can do it that way if you'd prefer."

He groaned as he slid his arm up the arrow; the flow of blood from his wound was sluggish and dark, and Leliana nodded to herself, satisfied that the poison she'd tipped her arrow with was working. It wouldn't kill him – but he wouldn't be escaping easily either, instead racked with stomach cramps and other, less pleasant gut effects.

Complaining the whole way, the soldier climbed to his feet, with Zevran and Aedan both holding blades to his throat. Nate cleared his throat and looked the man over from head to toe.

"Pretty impressive – you blended quite well. I wouldn't have guessed you weren't really one of ours until I noticed you lingering near my tent."

He winced. "Your Grace—"

"Don't bother with excuses. What's your name, and whose orders are you following? Being honest now will save you a lot of discomfort later, in case that hadn't occurred to you."

"My name's Joffrey, your Grace." He coughed, his voice sounding rough; Nathaniel gestured for Aedan and Zevran to relax, and reluctantly handed over a water skin he had tied at his belt.

Leliana didn't even have time to object – the cry left her lips just as the assassin lifted his hand and licked the skin on his wrist before taking a swig from the canteen. "No!"

Aedan stepped forward and grabbed him, wrenching his arms behind his back, but Leliana could tell it was already too late. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face, and he choked out a laugh.

"At least you'll go down with me." A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

Aedan snarled as Leliana paled, but Zevran stepped forward and pulled something from his belt – a small pouch, she saw, which he opened to reveal several tiny spikes of metal perhaps an inch long. Needles, she realised, and likely poisoned.

"You are referring to these, yes?" the Antivan asked with a smirk. "Poisoned needles in a bedroll are so…unimaginative. What sort of assassin are you?"

"The amateur kind. At least, I hope no one spent any coin on someone who's so bad at their job." Leliana had to giggle at Aedan's snarky reply, until Nate's smirk made butterflies twirl around in her stomach. She knew she shouldn't be finding him sexy when he could just have been killed – and their only lead had just poisoned himself, ruining their chances of tracing his employer – but there was just no chance that his particular half-smile wasn't going to set her mind spinning.

The assassin cursed – and then, slowly, slumped over. Aedan released his arms, and a corpse dropped at his feet. The Warden kicked the useless body with an oath. "Well, shit."


	23. Chapter 23

Twenty-Three: Nathaniel

Nate's smile fell, his hands clasping into fists at his side. "Maker take me, we had him. If I wasn't such a blighted idiot…"

Leliana turned to him, her smile sympathetic. "It's not your fault. You couldn't have known—"

"You did." Nate sighed. "I'll bet you all did. And I've just ruined any hope of pinning this on Esmerelle."

"He wouldn't have talked." The Antivan seemed completely confident in his assessment. "I know the type. Anyone willing to poison themselves to avoid capture wouldn't break. I doubt even his name was real."

"We'll never know now, will we?" He sighed. "Anyway, thank you again for your help. All of you. I'm not dead – and there probably won't be time for another attempt before we meet the Archdemon, so I guess it's a win?"

Aedan slapped Nate on the shoulder. "I'll find someone to clean up the body. You, my friend, need a new tent and a new bedroll. Even without the needles, I wouldn't want to sleep there."

"Get checked for injuries, yes? I am quite certain I found all of the needles, but…" Zevran trailed off.

Nate nodded and turned to walk away – where he was headed, he wasn't really sure. He had no intention of seeing the healers and would have to make a huge fuss to procure himself another bedroll and tent in the middle of the night, which he would never do.

He had gone only a few paces when he realised that there were footsteps following him. He spun, hand on the dagger sheathed at his waist, suddenly very anxious about a second attempt – but it was just Leliana, her red hair hidden in a deep hood, a sympathetic smile just visible in the dim light. She stepped towards him, closing the distance between them, and reached out to pry his fingers off the pommel. He released it with an embarrassed sigh, but somehow ended up with her hand in his, their fingers interwoven. Her hand was cold, and he shuddered at the contact – but it wasn't the temperature that got to him. He just stared at her, his throat tight, eyes prickling with an unfamiliar emotion.

She didn't say a word, just dragged him to the side, and after glancing surreptitiously around once, pulled him behind her through the opening of her tent. He hadn't even noticed how close they were to the small pavilion he used to inhabit. He ducked his head as he went through the flap, looking up just in time to be blinded by the arcane lamp she thumbed on. She turned and pulled him into a tight hug, Leliana's arms going around his neck, her fingers stroking his hair.

He hugged her back by instinct; he wanted to push her away, to protect her by keeping her as far from him as he could manage, but in that vulnerable moment he couldn't do it. He bent down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his arms around her waist tightly. It suddenly hit him: someone had tried to kill him. It was different, being in combat where you could die, compared to having someone try to murder you in cold blood. He started to shake, and loosened his arms, embarrassed at his reaction, but Leliana seemed unfazed – and unsurprised. She kissed his ear, then his shoulder, and tightened her fingers in his hair to provide some pressure. She hummed softly, something soothing that he didn't recognise.

With a gasp, he sank slowly to his knees, and she came with him, half-supporting and half-directing his fall until he ended up cross-legged on the ground, with the bard in his lap.

"Leliana," he began, his voice unsteady, but she just hushed him and refused to let go. It was too much, and the sob he'd been holding back finally broke through. He lifted his head, knowing there were tears streaking down his face, wanting her to see them, to see the coward he was. "I'm sor—"

She interrupted him with a kiss, open-mouthed, her tongue tracing his lower lip, her sweet-smelling breath in his face, and suddenly nothing else mattered. He crushed her to his chest, kissing her back desperately, willingly losing himself in the feel, the taste, Maker, the smell of her.

He never wanted the kiss to end.


	24. Chapter 24

Twenty-Four: Leliana

She made a small, pleased sound when their tongues touched, and he swallowed her gasp as he nipped at her lips. Before she realised what had happened, she found herself sprawled across his chest, her knees on either side of his hips, as he laid back unceremoniously in the middle of the tent.

They kissed for an eternity, lips sliding deliciously against each other, their breath intermingling. He was a good kisser, not too aggressive, but nicely assertive, his tongue teasing hers, his breath quick and shallow. He tasted a little of the ale he'd pretended to drink, but also like himself – something unique and heady. He smelled foul, but more than made up for it by how he felt against her.

And it felt good – his body was hard and lean against hers, one of his hands kneading her ass, the other stroking up her spine. She could feel him hard against her thighs, and he shuddered deliciously when she rocked her hips against him.

She wanted this – wanted him – so badly it hurt. But he'd just had an attempt on his life, and she wasn't about to let him hide from that truth. He needed to deal with it – and she needed to know it was her he wanted, not just a distraction.

She gentled the kiss, then stopped with her forehead pressed against his softly. "The first time we make love," she quoted back at him with a smile, "it won't be on the ground with you smelling like the wrong side of a seedy tavern."

He groaned. "The first time?"

She giggled and shook her head against his. "I mean it. We need to check you for needles Zevran missed. Then you need a bath, and some sleep."

"There's no needles," he objected.

"You wouldn't necessarily know, truthfully. They are small enough to be virtually painless, and often coated with a numbing agent in addition to poison." She climbed off him awkwardly and tugged his hand until he sat up. "Tunic off, yes?"

She made quick work of inspecting the fabric for tears, and then spent a few more minutes examining his chest and back in detail. She teased him to distract him from her purpose, running her fingers along his ribs and waist, enjoying his chuffs of laughter when she hit a ticklish spot almost as much as the gasps when she touched somewhere sensitive in a different way.

He seemed to enjoy it, getting in a few kisses and caresses while she looked, blushing as she openly admired his physique.

It was a glorious job, she reflected; he was strong and lean, his muscles well-developed, his skin bronze and smooth, with a few scars for the sake of variety. Finding nothing worrisome, she sat back and grinned at him sympathetically. "And now the rest."


	25. Chapter 25

Twenty-Five: Nathaniel

He sighed. Any other time the woman had asked him to take his clothes off, he'd have been thrilled. However, she'd made it quite clear that nothing was going to happen that night, and as he got a whiff of the alcoholic stench coming off his clothes – to both disguise the liquor he hadn't drunk, and also hide the fact that his breath didn't smell very strongly – he admitted she was probably wise to decline. But now he was supposed to shuck his trousers so she could inspect his bare skin – while fully hard and almost desperately aroused.

He pulled his loose tunic back over his head to give himself a moment. He closed his eyes, wincing at the smell of the foul moonshine Oghren had been drinking, and tried to think about anything other than the beautiful woman kneeling at his feet. He avoided thinking about the dungeon or the torture – he wasn't quite ready to traumatize himself to that degree to avoid a little embarrassment – but tried instead to think about the Grand Cleric, the darkspawn, or archery…

He opened his eyes to see a mischievous expression on her face. Leliana knelt almost submissively, her hands on her thighs, her shoulders back, looking up at him through her lashes. Her lips kept twitching with a suppressed grin. The entire picture shot a wave arousal straight to his groin, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers in dismay. The little witch knew exactly what she was doing – and she was enjoying it, damn her to the void.

But two could play at that game. With a last deep breath, he steeled himself and forced a cocky expression onto his face, smirking down at her confidently. His hands went to the laces of his trousers, and he slowly, methodically untied them until they were loose on his hips. He turned, playing shy, and nudged the fabric until it fell to pool at his feet, leaving her staring at his tight rear in nothing but smalls. Her quick gasp was all he needed to stiffen his resolve, and he stepped out of the trousers lazily and turned around so the noticeable bulge in his smalls was practically right in her face.

"They're all yours," he commented, and she jumped slightly and picked up the trousers quickly. "Shall I remove the rest?"

"I think this will suffice, my Lord," she croaked, her usually musical voice hoarse.

He hid a smile behind his hand and faked a yawn, then reached down to hold out a water skin in her direction. "Throat dry?"

She looked up at him again, and they both broke out in a fit of laughter. "No thank you." She finished looking over his trousers and gave his legs a quick – but professional – once over. "I think you're safe."

He held out his hand and helped her to her feet, still somewhat uncomfortable to be half naked, but more grateful to her, both for her help, and the emotional support. He pulled gently, and she came willingly into his arms, curling into his chest as he held her. "Thank you, Leliana."

She tilted her head back and accepted a chaste kiss. "If you wait here, I can bring you some hot water to wash, yes?" She stepped away from him and pointed at a bucket he hadn't noticed. "That won't be warm anymore."

He reached out and touched her arm gently. "I think I'll survive. I'm not sure I can say the same about these clothes, but I don't have anything else to change into."

She smiled and picked up a bundle from the top of her bedroll. "I have that covered." She handed him the bundle and went to step out. "There's a towel and washcloth there as well. I'll wait outside."

He took the clothes she handed him but stopped her before she could leave. "That's not necessary. I'll just…I mean, if you could just…turn your back?"

She nodded and returned to sit on her bedroll, facing the tent flap. He stripped quickly, washing himself hurriedly as he tried not to curse at the cold water. He briefly regretted not allowing her to bring warm water – but looking at her in the arcane light, with her hair falling around her sweet face and her weight resting back on her hands, he couldn't bring himself to be too upset.

He finished efficiently, dressing with hands shaking from the cold. He cleared his throat when he was done, stepping to the side of her bedroll. "All done." He looked down at her gratefully. "Thank you again. I suppose I'd better just…"

He trailed off when she looked up at him and patted the bedroll beside her. "You've got nowhere else to go, and we both know it. I think there's room for both of us here, no? Just for sleep though." She admonished him with a wagging finger and a stern expression, and he chuckled.

"I'll be the perfect gentleman."

He sat awkwardly, and together they slipped under the covers, her head on his chest, one leg crossed over his. She turned off the light, and he closed his eyes contentedly. _I could get used to this._ He knew better than to say it out loud.


	26. Chapter 26

Twenty-Six: Leliana

He was gone in the morning when she woke, but he'd left a piece of parchment with a note scrawled across it in hasty handwriting: _Your route is being handled by another scout for the day. I thought you could use some rest. I hope to see you tonight._

She sighed and stretched. She could admit she had been looking forward to waking up together but knew Nathaniel would be eager to report back to Cailan. It left her with a day to herself – a rare luxury – and she was determined not to waste it. She jumped up and dressed quickly, eating a brief meal of rations from her pack. There was still a small pile of ale-soaked clothing in the corner, and she gathered it up with a wrinkled nose.

Nathaniel's tent had been disassembled, leaving a small pile of belongings under a tarp made up of the old, torn tent; Leliana transferred everything except his bedroll into her, larger pavilion, determined that Nate would have his tent back. The bedroll she discarded; it smelled awful, and she'd never trust the assassin's needles had all been removed.

Thinking about the needles – and what she'd done to ensure none of them had harmed Nathaniel – left her pink-faced, but grinning.

She packed her own belongings, leaving them in one corner of the tent, and then went to the requisitions officer and got herself a new tent and bedroll, which she also stashed inside Nate's. She stepped out through the tent flap when she was done, and nearly knocked Sierra straight off her feet.

"You okay, Leli?" Sierra grabbed her arm, holding on until they were both stable. "I haven't seen you the last few nights."

"Oh, yes, my friend. How are you?" Leliana distracted the woman with small talk, having no desire to discuss what may – or may not – be happening with Nathaniel. But she made sure to borrow the small stone showerhead the Queen of Orzammar had gifted her, willing herself not to blush again as she considered the many uses to which it could be put…later.

The two women wandered through camp together, stopping to chat with several of their friends, who all seemed to be around, for once. Aedan started to talk about the assassination attempt, but Leliana shot him a look, tilting her head towards her friend when she wasn't looking. _Did the idiot really want to discuss that with Sierra?_ His eyes widened, but then he nodded in understanding and changed the subject. Zevran just flirted with the both of them, a sly grin on his face, leaving Aedan sputtering; the dwarves were already well into their cups, and they didn't linger. Wynne and Anders were working in the rough infirmary, trying desperately to stem the tide of a stomach malady that seemed to be going through the camp; Wynne shooed them away to reduce their risk of catching anything. No one had seen Conrad all day, and by mutual unspoken agreement, the two avoided the command tent entirely. Leliana had no desire to have to school her expression around Nathaniel – and Sierra had no desire to get pulled into planning sessions with Cailan and Loghain shouting at each other endlessly.

When Sierra left to go find her husband – and how adorable were they? – Leliana began the preparations she had in mind to finally, hopefully, give her and Nathaniel the chance to see if there was anything more to their relationship than mutual attraction and awkwardness. She gathered some supplies, scouted the area surrounding the camp for a likely location, and then hastily scrawled a note and handed it to one of the young runners to deliver.

It was almost supper time. She wouldn't have to wait long.

* * *

A/N: I'm having surgery tomorrow, so this is the last update for a few days. I'm hoping to be back to updating before the end of the week! Keep me in your thoughts tomorrow, if you don't mind ;)


	27. Chapter 27

Twenty-Seven: Nathaniel

He stood, staring at the open space where his tent used to be, mind spinning. He'd detailed someone to gather his things but had yet to requisition himself a new tent; the day had been busy, attending to Cailan and adding new routes for the scouts to cover amongst the various camps. He'd expected a pile of gear just waiting for him, but there was nothing.

While he considered his options – tracking down the servant who'd disassembled the tent, perhaps – a runner approached him nervously, holding out a note with slightly shaking hands. Nate took it, trying to hide his eyeroll from the poor kid; it wasn't the teenager's fault that he was now the Fereldan cautionary tale, and as such, apparently intimidating beyond belief.

He dismissed the runner with a wave, knowing it would be easier to deliver a response in person than force a terrified boy to stand there while he found writing supplies and wrote a reply. He didn't recognise the handwriting, but there was a subtle perfume scent on the parchment that immediately informed him who the author of the note was. He sniffed it appreciatively, furtively, before unfolding it.

"Arl Nathaniel Howe," he read. "My Lord, I have secured your possessions somewhere both safe and dry. I must insist on delivering my report to you in person. If this is acceptable to you, please proceed south from the edge of camp and follow the marked trail. If not, your former accommodations are prepared for your arrival."

He suppressed an outright grin; Leliana had left things vague enough that, if intercepted, the note would not implicate either of them in anything, however it gave him a clear enough impression: he was being invited to a secret meeting in the woods, but being given an easy out if he wished to end things without conflict.

He looked down at himself – the rumpled clothes he'd managed to pull out of his tent and change into early that morning, knowing his hair was unkempt and his face covered in stubble – and sighed. He could probably make her wait while he invaded her tent – he wasn't taking it back, no matter what she said – looking for clean clothes, but that clearly wasn't what she had in mind. He'd have to trust that his less-than-well-groomed self would be good enough.

He stopped briefly to speak to one of Cailan's many servants – Nathaniel hadn't really found time to hire his own, so Cailan had allowed him to borrow help when required. That done, he straightened his shoulders and started walking.

He followed her directions, leaving camp on the main path in the south, but quickly noted a flash of red to his right; upon further inspection, it was a thin strip of cloth the colour of Leliana's usual cloak. He untied it from the branch where he found it, only to realise that he was standing on a narrow trail leading away from the main path. Intrigued – and hoping he'd read her clues correctly – he followed the game trail west, finding another strip of cloth flapping in the slight breeze perhaps fifty feet further along. The trail meandered for a while, curving north and west, and leading up a slight hill, before taking a hard turn back towards the east and up a sharp incline. Another bright strip of red assured him that he was on the correct path. He didn't quite have to crawl up the slope, but was thankful for the scrubby trees and low-hanging branches on either side which he knew he could grab for if he lost his balance.

He was huffing slightly when he suddenly came to the top of the slope, a small clearing opening up in front of him. He hadn't even noticed the cliff from the camp, but it had a clear view overtop of the entire settlement and further out into the woods beyond. It was far enough away he could barely hear the noise of the camp getting ready for supper, but close enough he didn't worry overmuch about their safety. It was high enough up that they wouldn't be visible from below unless they stood right at the edge of the cliff, and there was a steep, though passable, route leading down the side of the cliff that would get them back to camp in moments, if necessary.

It was the perfect spot for a private meeting – or, he reflected as he looked down at the blanket spread out on the soft grass, a picnic.

"Hello."

Nathaniel spun around to see the source of that sweet voice he'd know anywhere. And then stopped, open-mouthed in surprise. Leliana stood there, having just emerged from the trees on the other side of the clearing, but it wasn't her presence that had him struck dumb.

She wore a dress. A simple style, really, not much more ornate than a farmer's wife might wear, but made of some supple fabric that hugged her curves and softened her smile. It was pale blue and yet surprisingly clean despite their surroundings, and it made her look more feminine and alluring than he thought possible.

Leliana in armour – or trousers – was dangerously distracting. Leliana in a gorgeous dress was jaw-dropping.

She raised one delicate eyebrow. "Speechless, my Lord?"

He forced his mouth closed and smirked instead. "Just on the lookout for an ambush. Can never be too careful when invited to clandestine meetings."

She laughed, coming closer until she stood only a few feet from him. "Perhaps you've just never seen a girl in a dress before."

He swallowed heavily. "Not one as beautiful as you." He reached out as though to take her hand, but then stopped and flushed. "I'm rather…underdressed."

She reached the rest of the way and curled her fingers around his. "I have the solution to that problem. Come."

* * *

A/N:

Thank you everyone for the support this week! My surgery went well - it's going to be a long recovery but things went as well as I could possibly hope.

Posting should return daily until I'm done this story, and back to There and Back Again around the end of the month.


	28. Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight: Leliana

She led him through the tree the way she'd come, to another, smaller clearing just out of line of sight. She had laid everything out already – two tarps for standing on, one already wet and one dry except for a few small, damp footprints; a clean towel; soap and shampoo, the scents he favoured; a blade to use as a straight razor; and a pile of new, clean clothes that had been harder to obtain than she'd admit.

She turned to face him from the edge of the tarp and held out her free hand, dropping the little stone showerhead she'd borrowed into his palm. She thought he'd be touched – privacy and cleanliness were both hard to find in the middle of an army encampment in the woods – but he wasn't even looking at the preparations. Instead he watched her, his eyes dark.

She flushed and broke the silence. "Go ahead and get cleaned up. That quick wash last night didn't do you justice." He growled as she pretended to sniff the air. "I'll be over there when you're finished. I thought we could maybe…talk."

He nodded, but didn't let go of her hand, instead tugging her closer gently. She went willingly into his arms, skin still pink. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I've half a mind to invite you to wash my back."

She giggled. "Naughty man! And here I was trying to help you get clean, my Lord."

"My name is Nathaniel." He chuckled. "We could do that too. Together."

She stepped back with a mischievous smile. "And waste the supper I packed us? Not a chance. Get changed, Nathaniel."

She waited for him on the blanket in the larger clearing, trying to avoid thinking about him just down the hill, naked and damp…and hoping she'd wash his back. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, choosing instead to lay out the picnic that she'd organised. It was nothing remarkable – some fresh game, caught by one of the Dalish hunters who'd been helping supply the army, some bread and cheese, and a rather expensive bottle of wine. Getting fancy food in the middle of an army camp was impossible, but at least it wasn't salted meat from one of the barrels and hard biscuit.

She didn't have to wait for long until he joined her, hair damp and braided back, clean-shaven except for his signature patch, and dressed impeccably. She'd been quite sure the clothes would fit, but he looked almost unbearably handsome in the high-collared doublet and dark, laced trousers. He looked self-conscious, until he noticed her gaping; his shy smile was reward enough for the hard work it had taken to arrange everything on such short notice.

He sank to his knees beside her, nodding at the feast spread out in front of them. "And again, I'm unprepared," he groused. "One of these days I'll be the one making surprising romantic gestures, I swear it."

She just giggled and handed him a plate. "I wouldn't count on it. I'm a little bit hard to surprise, yes?"

He arched an eyebrow at her, putting the plate down on the blanket in front of him. "Oh?" His tone was mild, and she never saw it coming. Before she could lift her own plate or take a single bite, he pounced, cradling her head even as he lowered her to the ground, his lips meeting hers, his arms caging her. He knelt awkwardly beside her to avoid crushing her with his weight, but even as his tongue took advantage of her surprised gasp, she knew she needed more. She reached her arms up and wrapped them around his torso, pulling him to her until he settled over her.

They kissed for what felt like hours, and Leliana lost herself to the bliss of his lips on hers, his hand in her hair, his hips pinning her to the blanket underneath her. He felt divine, firm and lean, and his little groans as he plundered her mouth made her roll her hips up against him desperately. He switched his attention to her long, slender neck, making her writhe as he nipped her sharply and then kissed away the sting. She reached for him, tangling her hands in his hair, trying to return the favour, but he persisted, taking nothing from her but the gasps and moans he could wrest from her, from how she shuddered when he found a particularly sensitive spot.

She never wanted the evening to end.


	29. Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine: Nathaniel

After an eternity of lavishing attention on her neck, her ears, and the delightful dip between her collar bones, he returned to her lips, gentling the kiss until he pulled away, touching his forehead to hers instead. He rolled to one side, propping himself on one elbow to look down at her, running his hand from her shoulder, down her arm, until he found her hand, loosely draped across her belly. "Lel—"

Whatever he'd planned to say was interrupted by the noisy grumbling of her stomach, and she giggled even as she flushed with embarrassment. He smirked, but without a word, reached over, grabbed the nearest plate and inched it closer, before breaking off a morsel of meat from the thick slice she'd prepared from him, and feeding it to her. She watched his face closely, still pink, her expression apprehensive, but she accepted the bite anyway and chewed carefully. He studied her as she swallowed, admiring the scattered freckles across her nose, the strands of flame-red hair that fell across her forehead, the muscles moving in her neck as she swallowed. He continued feeding her, stealing the odd bite for himself, both of them lying in complete silence, never looking away. When both plates were empty, he pushed them away, kissed her softly, and then struggled up to his knees beside her.

He sighed, unable to remain quiet – even when he knew he should. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." She flushed again and sat up, reaching for him; he took her hand and brought it to his lips for a soft kiss. "Between my family history and my own past…I'm no prize. And being with me extends the target painted on me to you."

She opened her mouth to object, but he held up his hand, and she paused. "Despite that, even knowing I should…I can't walk away from you. You mean too much to me." He swallowed. "So if you don't…if you…well." He cleared his throat. "Now is the time you should tell me, if you don't want this. Because otherwise I want…I would like…"

It was her turn to stop him, putting a slender finger over his lips with a smile. "I'm not going anywhere. We both have complicated pasts. I don't care – and I can take care of myself."

He nodded, his palms slick with sweat, his heart beating too fast in his ears. "Leliana…I would like to…that is, I was wondering…"

She giggled, the sound rich and lush, setting his nerves on fire. "Nathaniel. Unless I'm much mistaken, one of us no longer has a tent or a bedroll, yes? You gave up yours, silly man, and haven't taken it back, nor have you arranged for another." Her smile was soft, and she toned down her amusement as his face reddened. When he looked down at his knees, avoiding her gaze, she squeezed his hand. "Will you share with me tonight? Tomorrow you can make whatever arrangements you wish, but tonight, will you stay with me?"

Her expression was hopeful, but not without her own subtle signs of insecurity. Her shoulders were tense, the hand he wasn't holding clenched tight. It gutted him that she could be so uncertain. How could she, of all people, doubt that any man would jump at her offer? Never mind him, the pariah of Ferelden, the son of a mass murderer and traitor? His instinct told him to walk away, that she would be better off without him. But he hadn't been lying; he couldn't, not if his life depended on it.

"Leliana." Her name was like a prayer on his lips, and when he reached out to lift her chin with his finger, she rolled to her knees gracefully and came to him, meeting him in the middle, tilting her lips up to accept the kiss he couldn't stop himself from bestowing on her. And then her arms were around his neck, her tongue teasing his lower lip, and he groaned and gave himself up to the feel, the taste of her, the anticipation of more to come.


	30. Chapter 30

Thirty: Leliana

Sneaking back to her tent was a simple matter. Nathaniel had demonstrated his abilities back in Denerim, and he'd been half-starved and weakened from weeks of torture at the time. Now only her own, considerable skills even allowed her to follow him when he disappeared into the shadows of the darkened camp. It would have been even easier, if not for the slight shaking in her hands, and the queasy sort of quaking in her stomach. It had been a long time since she'd had nerves related to going to bed with someone – but then, it had been a long time since she'd done that, too. She supposed a bit of anxiety was probably normal.

It would have been easier with anyone else, she thought; not that she wanted to take anyone else to bed, but knowing that she likely had only this one encounter – one single night – to prove to them both that they had something worth fighting for was nerve-wracking. If they were somehow incompatible – or if he regretted it the next day, for whatever reason – she'd never see him again, she was sure.

So it was with sweaty palms and a tremulous smile that she parted the flaps on the tent he'd given up for her. He followed her inside, his warm breath on her neck giving her goosebumps. The last light of dusk was fading, so the shadowy interior of the tent was difficult to see. She sighed; she'd have preferred to have more light, not only to allow her to admire his lean, archer's body, but also to be able to watch his face for reactions – to her, to what they were doing – and any indication how he was feeling about it. But despite having access to one of the miraculous little arcane lamps from Soldier's Peak, she wouldn't use it. Neither of them wanted to advertise what was happening between them, and in the dark, with the light on, anyone passing by would be able to see their silhouettes. She had no intention of sharing him with anyone.

His arms wrapped around her from behind before she had the chance to turn; he was warm, and she leaned back against him almost involuntarily, enjoying the feel of his chest against her back and his arms around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed happily as some of her nerves settled. She turned in his arms, draping her own arms around his neck and lifting her face expectantly. Instead of the kiss she anticipated, he pressed his forehead against hers, his nose nuzzling her own gently. His face was lost in the shadows of the tent, but she fancied she could feel his gaze on her.

His breath caught in the way that it would if he was about to speak, but after a brief pause, in which he said nothing, he shifted and pressed his soft lips against her own instead. She gasped in surprise, but arched against him and returned the kiss in kind when his tongue flicked across her lips teasingly. Her tongue sought his, her fingers wove into his still-damp hair, and she gave herself up to the feel of him, his hands stroking her back, his taste in her mouth, his hard body pressed against her from knees to shoulders. He groaned softly as she fisted her hands, using his long, silky hair to pull him closer.

When he released her lips to shift his attention to the long expanse of her slender neck, she hummed in pleasure – but backed away, running her hands down his chest softly before reaching for the top button of his doublet. He froze, his hands on her hips clenched, and she paused briefly before popping open the next button, and then the next. He stayed still, rapid breaths escaping from his lips until it was time to shrug out of the doublet entirely. He tossed it aside, and after a brief moment of hesitation, pulled his tunic over his head to join the doublet on the ground.

She reached for him before the fabric had left his fingers, her cold hands pressing against the warm skin on his shoulders. She could feel him shudder as she explored his chest: the small patch of sparse hair covering thick bands of muscle, the scars scattered across his skin like confetti. She edged closer, until she could press a kiss directly over his heart.

And then she was in his arms again, one of his hands tilting her chin up so he could kiss her deeply, the other around her waist holding her close. She continued tracing her fingers over his skin, from his chest to his shoulders, his ribs to his back, until he gasped and pulled away laughing.

"Don't tickle!" he chuckled, and then, as if imagining the enormous grin that spread across her face in the darkened tent, he moved, quick as a snake, to pin her arms against her sides. "I said don't," he whispered, his tone trying for low and dangerous but the laughter in his voice made her giggle.

"I apologise, m'lord," she teased. "I'm a naughty girl. What will it be: whips, or the rack?"


	31. Chapter 31

Thirty-One: Nathaniel

He released her arms with a huff, unable to keep the serious frown on his face. Leliana had a gift – one of many, he admitted – for making him laugh, something no one had really been able to do in years. It felt good, even if it was entirely inappropriate in the middle of an intimate…interlude.

It wasn't better that he was half-naked and more than half-hard from the sinful feeling of her hands on his skin.

He'd let her take the lead at every step so far in their relationship, terrified of overstepping, or painting a target on her back, or tainting her with his reputation. He'd waited until she approached him, made her be the one to flirt first, let her set the pace. He'd had to stop himself from asking her over and over again if she was certain she wanted to do this.

But he wanted her – oh, how he wanted her – and he was done with waiting. She had shown him in every way possible the feeling was mutual, and it was time to stop agonising over it and make a move. She deserved someone who would show her exactly how desirable she was, not someone frozen in condescending indecisiveness.

"I have a different idea, you little imp." He reached for her, cupping her face in his hand and tilting her chin up so he could apply his lips to her neck. She hummed in his ear and turned her head further to give him room to work. Emboldened by the obvious permission, his other hand fumbled with the laces on the back of her dress, until he felt it fall loose around her slender frame. When she stepped away again to let the dress fall at her feet, he closed his eyes briefly, sending a prayer of gratitude to the Maker.

He wished he could see her; he understood the need for privacy but would have given much for some light. Instead he stepped closer, pulling her against his chest, only to hiss as he realised she'd worn nothing under the dress and her bare breasts were pressing against him. He kissed her desperately, trying to convince himself to take his time despite the pounding of his heart and the butterflies racing in his stomach. Her arms tightened around his neck as she moaned and wriggled against him; he could feel her hard nipples dragging across his skin and he gripped her ass almost involuntarily.

Without thinking, he pulled her up into his arms; she wrapped her legs around his waist to help as he stumbled across the tent to the bedroll they'd shared the night before. He was surprised to find more there than he expected – a few extra layers of blankets across a larger space big enough for both of them – and was grateful for her forethought. He knelt, laying her across the blankets gently without breaking the kiss, and then shuffled to the side, propping himself up on one elbow to lean over her. He teased her with his tongue, dipping into her mouth briefly before withdrawing to slide softly along her lower lip. She growled under her breath, and he chuckled before being drawn into a deeper, soul-shattering kiss.

Then, finally, he had the chance to touch her the way he'd been dreaming of for months – since the moment she'd walked through the door in his father's estate in Denerim. One of her arms was pinned below him, her fingers stroking his back and neck; the other was free and kept urging him on. Wanting to take his time, he took her hand and held it tightly with the arm underneath her head, then allowed his other hand to roam from her cheek, to her ear, down her neck to her collar bones. She gasped and writhed underneath him, and he made a mental note of each place that elicited a reaction to return to later. When he closed his hand over one supple breast, she shuddered and arched into his touch, and he pulled out of the kiss to curse under his breath as a spike of arousal traveled down his spine.

Leaving his hand where it was, he followed the path his fingers had taken with his lips and tongue, sucking and licking the smooth skin before peppering her chest with ardent pecks. She wove her fingers into his hair, and apparently impatient, dragged his face to her neglected breast. They both groaned as he lapped at her firm nipple before suckling gently.

He spent an eternity there, switching back and forth between her lush breasts, trying to commit every gasp and sigh to memory. He'd never been so turned on. She was delectable and sinfully sweet as she twisted underneath him, and he had to pause more than once to adjust his trousers and take a deep breath before he spilled before they'd even gotten started.


	32. Chapter 32

Thirty-Two: Leliana

She thought she would lose her mind; he'd played with her body, driving her mad with teasing licks and touches for what felt like hours, until she couldn't take it anymore. He'd reclaimed her free hand, so she could do nothing but wriggle and pant under his talented lips and fingers.

"Nathaniel, please!" she gasped, and finally – _finally!_ – she felt his hand creeping lower, across her smooth stomach to the gap between her thighs. He paused to stroke over her mound, stirring the hairs there and leaving her panting for more. And then his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, as he began stroking her lower lips. She bucked, surprised and aroused by how skilled he was, drawing out her pleasure effortlessly.

He hissed through his teeth when he finally dipped his fingers into her soaked folds, and she might have been embarrassed by how wet she was if it hadn't been entirely his fault. Instead she squirmed, alternately trying to press herself against his questing fingers and trying to free her hand to take care of the burning need herself. He hushed her, taking her lips in a passionate kiss, stroking her cleft more firmly now, teasing against her opening.

She mewled into his mouth when he stopped, withdrawing his clever fingers and his soft lips. "Wha-?" she whined, reaching for him even as he lurched to his knees beside her.

"I need to taste you," he soothed, and she felt something deep inside her clench deliciously at the thought. His tone was low and husky in a way she'd never heard before, and it sent shivers down her spine. She was too aroused to be self-conscious as he settled down between her thighs, his breath warm against her crease.

And then his mouth was on her, and she lost whatever train of thought she might have been following. She became nothing but a bundle of sensation, thrusting her hips up towards the pressure of his lips and tongue. He pulled one of her legs over his shoulder, pressing the other up towards her chest to open her to his questing mouth, and she cried out as his tongue swept from her opening to her aching pearl. She didn't even notice when her fingers clenched in his hair to urge him on.

He groaned and licked her again, before stiffening his tongue and plunging it deep inside her. It was too much and not enough at the same time, and she thrashed and ground herself against his face desperately. He tasted her almost leisurely, switching between the deep strokes she craved and the soft, tentative licks that just inflamed her more. When she whimpered and tried to pull him closer, he just pinned her hips and held her while he continued his deliberate exploration. She closed her eyes and threw her head back with a muttered curse, forced to just endure the rising pleasure.

She gasped when she felt one finger slide inside her, quickly joined by a second; they pumped into her gently but persistently as his tongue stroked over her pearl more intently. When she felt his lips wrap around the firm bud and suck, she arched and stiffened, crying out as she thrashed and came undone.

He continued to lick and stroke her as her orgasm faded, wringing several devastating aftershocks from her overwrought body. When she finally went limp, she felt him gently extricate himself from her tangled limbs and crawl up beside her. She could taste herself on his lips when he kissed her, and she moaned, helplessly aroused but too wrung out to do much about it. Somehow, he'd shucked his trousers during the transition, and she could feel his hard length against her hip.

"I won't ask who I should thank for that," she sighed, and smiled when she heard him chuff a laugh in the dark. "If this is my punishment for tickling, I think you may have made a mistake, yes?"

He kissed her again, and she lost herself in the feeling of his tongue teasing hers, his hand back on her breast, fingers tweaking her nipple softly. He shifted over her and settled between her thighs, and she flexed her hips and pulled him closer, her heels resting against the backs of his thighs, his length nudging against her damp folds.

"That's not your punishment," he whispered, and then before she knew what was happening, he'd turned, pulling her with him and reversing their positions so she sat astride him, resting her hands on his shoulders.

Unwilling to wait any longer, she adjusted her position until she could sink down and take him in to the root, his erection stretching her delightfully. He let out a long, tortured moan, and she'd have giggled if it hadn't felt so good, so necessary.

It had been far, far too long.


	33. Chapter 33

Thirty-Three: Nathaniel

Finally buried inside her, the heat and damp of her, like a tight velvet glove, was nearly his undoing. He clenched his hands, his nails digging into his palms painfully, as he struggled to think of something – anything – else to distract him from his imminent need. And then she moved, rising up slowly and slamming back down until her skin impacted against his thighs, and he almost shouted.

The woman he'd been dreaming of for months was in his lap, making love to him, and he was about to shame himself by losing control too soon.

That thought did it; the mere idea that he would disappoint Leliana had the urgency of his orgasm receding, and with a shuddering breath, he reached up and grasped her hips gently, encouraging her to tilt and circle above him. She whimpered as her firm button pressed against his pubic bone, and he relaxed, now confident he could maintain control for as long as necessary.

The woman astride him leaned down to press an ardent kiss to his lips, and he cupped her nape, holding her in place so he could plunder her mouth properly. He couldn't see her, but he could imagine her there, riding him, her hair bouncing in her face and her eyes closed in ecstasy. He slid one hand up from her hip to cup a small breast, his thumb flicking over her erect nipple, and she squeaked and writhed.

"So beautiful," he gasped, and then a flood of praise and prayers spilled out of his mouth as she rode him. He bent his knees to help steady her, and their fingers intertwined as he held his hands up to support her. Her whimpers turned to moans, and then to steady cries as she lifted and drove herself down on him again and again. He spared about half a thought for the noise they were making – and decided he couldn't possibly care less if the whole camp heard them. He'd murder anyone who tried to harm her, and damn the consequences. He'd take out half the nobility if he had to in order to keep her safe – and Cailan would probably thank him for doing it.

He didn't get a chance to think about it more; Leliana stiffened and came, losing her rhythm as she shuddered and wailed in his lap. He released her hands to press one thumb down just above where their bodies joined, the other hand sliding up to squeeze her breast, prolonging her orgasm - and gritting his teeth against the pleasure of her sheath fluttering around him. He cursed as he struggled not to spill himself into her despite the searing need burning in his blood.

She finally collapsed down onto his chest, and he held her as she caught her breath. It was sweet torture, her naked skin pressed against his, his length still buried inside her, but he couldn't imagine anywhere else he wanted to be. He tightened his arms, feeling her nuzzle against his neck softly.

"I'm still not convinced you've got this punishment thing figured out," she whispered, her voice raspy and light. She bit his earlobe playfully as she giggled.

He growled, holding her to him as he flexed his hips and flipped them so that she was underneath him, his hips between her thighs, his erection still stretching her. "That wasn't your punishment either," he bit out, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on her shoulder while he pulled himself together.

She squeaked adorably when the sudden move startled her, but it devolved into a low, strangled moan as he thrust once into her depths. "Oh, no," she gasped, though her arms locked around his neck even as she lifted her legs to give him more room to move. "I can't – not again."

He hummed, leisurely thrusting once more. "I think you'll find that's not true, little minx." He ground his pubis against her, and she gasped and clenched his length, earning herself another thrust. "Once more, now." He thrust again and again, slowly, savouring the feel of every deliciously tight inch of her welcoming him inside her.

He pushed up with his hands, getting his knees underneath him, pulling her pelvis into his lap; reaching up to take one of her hands, he brought it down to where their bodies met. "Show me. Make yourself come for me, Leliana." He rested his hand over hers so he could feel the movement when she followed his instructions and began circling her pearl in time with his thrusts.


	34. Chapter 34

Thirty-Four: Leliana

"Nathaniel," she sighed, her tone embarrassingly breathy. She was overwrought, her aching muscles clenching every time she touched herself, every time he buried himself inside her; she didn't think she could firm up her voice if her life depended on it. It was too much, but at the same time it was too good to stop – she never wanted him to stop.

This was her punishment, she was sure of it. He was trying to pleasure her until she gave out. And as much as they'd both been joking about the punishment, she couldn't be completely sure she'd survive it. Her heart raced so quickly she felt dizzy, and she was already wrung out like a wet rag.

She circled her bud once more at his urging, turned on as much by the sound of his frantic, deep voice as by his body entwined with hers. She could picture him, his dark hair wild around his head, his face contorted by pleasure, his full lips pursed as he prayed, his arms trembling, trying to hold off until she came for him one more time.

It had been a long time since she'd cared for anyone – longer since she'd cared for a man – but she knew nothing in her past could compare to the way he made her feel. No one had ever been so focused on her pleasure, so dedicated to fulfilling her, so devoted to loving her. And he did love her – there could be no mistaking it, though he'd never said the words. Leliana had thought that Marjolaine had felt the same way for her as she had for her mentor, but it was suddenly, clearly apparent that she'd never really cared. She'd used Leliana for pleasure and used sex as a method of manipulation, but had never spared a thought for Leliana's needs.

And Leliana couldn't bring herself to care. If not for her betrayal, Leliana would still be that girl, shallow and naïve and unfulfilled. She couldn't romanticize her time in the dungeon – Raleigh and his men had tried, and nearly succeeded, in breaking her completely – but it had been a necessary awakening to bring her to where she was meant to be. And she had no doubt that the Maker had ensured she was here, with the people she was meant to help, and the man she was meant to love.

And she did love him; she couldn't deny it. She'd never loved anyone the way she loved him.

Any further thoughts on the subject were interrupted when he leaned over her, the angle driving her fingers against her clit, the hair on his chest rubbing against her nipples, his lips on her ear. "Please," he begged, his warm breath giving her goosebumps. "Please, you feel so good, please come for me."

He thrust once more, then twice, his arms snaking beneath her limp shoulders to hold her to him; she shuddered, and then fell apart. He swallowed her hoarse cry, using her lips to muffle his roar as he stiffened and came inside her, the two of them riding out their shattering orgasms together. The world greyed out around Leliana, so that all she could feel was him, cradling her and protecting her even as he spilled deep inside her.

Later, when their racing hearts had slowed, and their bodies settled together into a comfortable tangle, she stretched her legs experimentally and groaned.

"Well, tomorrow should be interesting, yes? I'm not certain I can even walk, never mind ride."

She could hear the smirk in his voice when he replied, "And that's your punishment, naughty girl."

She couldn't do anything but laugh.


	35. Chapter 35

Thirty-Five: Nathaniel

They fell asleep entwined, the soft sound of Leliana's breathing lulling him to sleep. He'd held her as she nodded off, and he'd wanted to tell her he loved her, and he didn't. But she was naked and vulnerable in his arms…and tomorrow was another day. Another chance at bravery.

He should have felt guilty at the mental image of her riding her route, stiff and sore from their exertions…but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but smug. Mind you, he was pretty sure his legs would still be shaking in his meeting with Cailan in the morning, too.

They reached for each other in the night, as new lovers often do; the memories of her rear pressed to his groin, her back arching underneath him as she babbled demands for _more_ and _harder_ and _don't stop_ , were something he'd take with him to his deathbed.

He woke when the first light of dawn pierced the sky, slightly brightening the interior of the tent. They'd shifted during the night, so he was spooned behind her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, one of his hands cupping a bare breast. He wasn't sure what had woken him, but even with her hair in his face she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He'd blinked only a couple of times when he realised she was smiling at him over her shoulder almost shyly.

"Good morning, my Lord," she whispered, lips quirking at the title she knew he hated.

"Good morning, Scout Leliana," he replied, before pulling her closer, clumsily, and kissing her thoroughly. They both had morning breath, and bed head, and they were twisted awkwardly so they could reach, and he didn't care, taking the kiss deeper and groaning as she sucked his tongue briefly before biting his bottom lip playfully.

He broke off with a gasp, rolling his eyes at the self-satisfied grin on her face when he touched his tender lip. She stuck her tongue out at him, and though he tried to stifle it, he couldn't help the laugh that rumbled out of him, deep and resonant. Her eyes lit up at the sound, and she rolled towards him, plastering her ear to his chest to feel the vibration as he guffawed.

When she peeked up at him, her expression was…besotted, was the only word he could think of to describe it. He knew his answering smile would be equally loopy, and he shook his head slowly. "You undo me." He stared at her, aware of her curvy body in his peripheral vision but enraptured by her alluring face, her stunning eyes, her adorable nose, her full lips drawn back in a dazzling smile.

He should have said it then, too, but he didn't. And then someone outside sneezed, and they both jumped as though they'd been zapped by a mage's lightning spell, and the moment was lost.

"I have to go," Leliana whispered, reluctantly peeling herself out of his arms, stretching sinuously before getting up to search for the dress she'd dropped somewhere on the floor of the tent.

"Why?" He sat up, frowning. "Your route shouldn't start for—"

"That's not it." She spied the dress several feet further away, and scurried over to it. "It will be too difficult to sneak away later, yes?"

"Leliana…"

She picked up the swath of fabric and straightened, smiling at him, her face showing no signs of the distress he could feel suddenly roiling in his belly.

"It's alright, Nathaniel. This is your tent anyway. I arranged for mine to be set up with the other messengers – I need to be seen coming and going from it if we're—"

He leaped up from the blankets still naked, crossing the tent in a single moment, pulling her into his arms before she could finish.

"No."

He felt her stiffen in his arms, but she didn't pull away. He closed his eyes and held her tighter.

"No?"

"No." He released her just enough to see her face, but kept his hold on her tightly – too tightly. "No hiding. No sneaking. No secrets."

She raised one eyebrow artfully. "But, Nathaniel…"

He ran one hand through his hair roughly but refused to let her go. "I know. I know what I said. I know what you think you'll do to my reputation." He sighed and pulled her close again, pressing their foreheads together. "I don't care. If anyone in the world can protect themselves from the target I put on their back, it's you. I don't have a reputation to ruin; my marriage prospects within the Fereldan nobility are already nonexistent – and no one who sees you, or knows you, will blame me for falling for you anyway. Aedan already knows – and I'm sure Cailan's guessed – and they don't care."

He paused to rub his long nose against hers softly. "I am not ashamed of this. Of you. I'm honoured to be with you. If you'd let me, I'd shout it from the rooftops. I love you, Leliana, and I don't care who knows." He took a deep breath. "Unless you don't feel the same. I know that people will look at you differently for being with me. If you'd rather keep it a secret for your own reasons…"

"No," she blurted. "No."

His shoulders dropped, his stiff frame relaxing as he released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "Thank the Maker," he muttered, and then he was kissing her, again and again, unrestrainedly. Her arms went around his back, and he weaved his fingers through her hair with one hand as he stroked her spine with the other, the dress pressed between them, all but forgotten.

"Come back to bed," he cajoled. "Please?" He pulled the fabric of the dress out and tossed it back where she'd found it, then shifted his grip to her hands, pulling her gently back towards the nest of blankets where they'd spent the night.

She frowned at him, but her lips were struggling not to turn up at the sides, and she followed him willingly. "I'm keeping my own tent," she informed him.

"Absolutely. You should have somewhere private to go if you need it." He tugged her hands down as he knelt.

"Or if you do." She smoothed the skeptical eyebrow that rose at her words. "This is still new, and we may need space." She knelt beside him, going willingly into his arms, closing her eyes as he kissed her again. Things were quiet for a few minutes as they just relished being together.

Nathaniel didn't know where this would lead; he had no crystal ball, and Sierra had once told him he and Leliana had never even met in her game. He didn't care; he'd do whatever he must to make the bard happy, to keep her with him. He couldn't even contemplate the alternative; one night in her arms, and he never wanted to sleep alone again. It hadn't escaped his notice that she hadn't responded to those three little words he'd dropped on her, but it didn't matter – he'd be there with her until he'd earned them, or die trying.

They spent the early morning in bed, exploring and touching and feeling and talking; he knew they should have been resting, but he couldn't seem to stop – and her eager hands and lips told him sleep was the furthest thing from her mind as well. Finally they could wait no longer – she had a route to ride, and he was expected in a meeting with Cailan any moment.

Letting her go, getting themselves dressed and watching her leave his tent was the hardest thing he thought he'd ever do.


	36. Chapter 36

Thirty-Six: Leliana

She kissed him one more time, her heart feeling like it was overflowing. Things had moved so fast, but the only thing she regretted was that they'd waited so long. He was everything she had expected – methodical, deliberate, passionate – and so much more.

She was anxious for the future; it was easy to say they didn't care what others thought, and yet harder to live by – and they both had responsibilities. But she'd decided she'd cross those bridges when she came to them. The Maker had brought Nathaniel to her, somehow – she'd just have to trust that he had some reason for it.

She ducked out of the tent flap, her hips protesting the movement stiffly; looking around surreptitiously before stepping into the open, she felt foolish after the discussion they'd had. And then she stopped and turned back. They were running late, but there was one more thing she needed before she could start her day.

She ducked back inside as Nathaniel buckled the last of his armour into place. He looked up at her in surprise, but his expression was pleased, not distressed.

"Leli?" Sierra had been the first to grant her the nickname, but it did wicked things to her to hear it in his husky voice.

She smiled shyly. "I forgot something."

"Oh?" He looked around the tent as though trying to identify a belonging of hers that she'd left behind.

She crept up to him while he was turned away, and ambushed him with a fiery kiss before he'd even noticed her there. She jumped away before he could pin her in place, and he grunted as his arms closed on nothing but air.

"Nathaniel?" He scowled at her, and she giggled. "See you tonight?"

"Count on it." His scowl, which he hadn't quite released, made the statement seem much more earnest than he likely intended, but her heart throbbed in response anyway.

"Good." She turned to leave, but paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. "I love you too. Just so you know." She slipped out before he could say anything, but she didn't miss the look of wonder that crossed his face before the tent flap fell between them. She hurried off before he could come after her.

She thought he'd probably get her back for that later.

She couldn't wait.

~~~Fin~~~

Here we come to the end of the origin story of Naliana (Lelithaniel?). Their story does continue as a small part of "There and Back Again". The next chapter after the events in this story is chapter 109. I hope you all enjoyed their back story, and felt the connection between the two that I did.

A million thanks to my fabulous betas, Kira Tamarion and Melysande, for their help with this project. And thanks to Turtle Burst, who first convinced me to write this, and then encouraged me until I finished it. You ladies rock!

Posting for "There and Back Again" should resume every second Monday at the end of the month.


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